LIBRARY 

'University  of  California 

IRVINE^ 


GUERNDALE 


,  -f  ve<le>rick 

GUERNDALE 


n 


J .     S .    OF     DALE 


'  En  los  nidos  de  antano  no  hay  pajaros  de  hogano." — Don  Quijot* 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    S  O  N  S 

1882 


7 


G?3 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


TROW'.S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
201-213  East  Twelfth  Street 


PREFACE. 


IN  these  latter  commercial  days  of  ours,  when  a 
rise  of  one-eighth  of  one  per  centum  in  the  rate 
of  discount  causes  more  stir  than  was  anciently  felt 
at  the  downfall  of  a  religion,  and  even  our  passions 
are  regulated  by  the  laws  of  supply  and  demand  ;  in 
these  days,  when  the  strength  of  popular  emotion  is 
accurately  tested  in  the  stock  market  and  not  often  felt 
in  any  other  way  ;  in  these  days,  when  honor  is  re 
placed  by  adroitness,  justice  by  good  nature,  and  the 
occasional  highwayman  by  the  common  swindler — 
in  all  these  days  it  is  natural  that  the  character  of 
our  fiction  should  follow  the  nature  of  our  thought. 
These  are  the  piping  times  of  peace  :  we  lazily  adapt 
ourselves  to  the  laws  of  expediency,  and  are  possessed 
of  too  much  good  taste  to  be  either  very  good  or 
very  bad.  So  we  all  preserve  a  specious  mediocrity  ; 
and  society  is  somewhat  insipid  in  consequence. 
Sometimes,  still,  we  long  for  the  heavy  villain  of  our 
forefathers  ;  for  a  little  shadow,  to  lend  a  more  strik- 


VI  PREFACE. 

ing  contrast  to  the  unquestionable  valor  of  our  son*, 
and  the  indisputable  virtue  of  our  daughters.  The 
modem  novel  has  replaced  the  mediaeval  romance, 
snubs  are  dealt  instead  of  stabs  ;  the  chanson  d" amour 
has  become  vers  de  societe,  and  every  young  lady  is 
quite  competent  to  be  her  own  duenna  ;  maidens 
are  mistresses  of  etiquette,  and  our  bloods  and  blades, 
our  lions,  roar  you  an  't  were  any  sucking-dove. 

Is  it  then  that  passions  fade  in  the  garish  light  of 
civilization  ?  Was  romance  the  outgrowth  of  barba 
rism,  and  earnestness  of  intolerance  ?  Is  the  exag 
geration  of  an  emotion,  of  a  virtue,  in  equally  bad 
taste  with  the  exaggeration  of  a  manner  or  voice  ? 

oo 

Has  poetry  fled,  and  left  us  in  a  desert  of  common 
sense  ?  In  answer  to  some  of  these  questions,  I  have 
committed  this  history  to  writing.  Should  it  seem 
to  the  reader  exaggerated,  improbable,  let  him  re 
member  that  we  are  all  now  too  polite  to  bring  our 
real  lives  upon  the  stage  of  society  ;  and  let  him  not 
forget  that  real  lives  may  yet  exist.  Every  nature  is 
stretched  upon  the  Procrustean  bed  of  convention. 
Romeo  no  longer  prates  of  his  love  at  the  street  cor 
ners,  nor  does  Othello  use  the  fatal  frankness  of  a 
pillow  ;  Tarquin  stiidies  propriety,  and  Achilles  dis 
sembles  his  wrath.  So  in  our  tragedies :  we  no 
longer  kill  half  the  company  openly  and  above  board 
in  the  fourth  act.  Nee  Medea  trucidct  liberos  coram 
populo :  the  evident  deed  has  given  place  to  the  com 
plex  emotion  ;  the  objective  to  the  subjective.  We 


PREFACE.  vii 

must  seek  the  romantic  in  thought,  not  event ;  in 
character,  not  action ;  in  our  real  selves,  not  the 
selves  men  take  with  them  to  the  club.  And  I  some 
times  fancy  that  when  we  do  this,  we  find  as  much 
romance  in  the  world  as  ever. 

Now,  when  I  had  finished  this  story,  I  threw  it 
over  to  a  friend  of  mine,  a  literary  and  artistic  fel 
low,  who  is  mentioned  frequently  in  these  pages.  I 
am  nothing  but  a  plain  civil  engineer  ;  and  am  wont 
to  rely  upon  his  judgment  in  these  matters,  as  he 
himself  is  on  the  dilettante  lay.  This,  I  am  told,  is 
an  Italian  word,  meaning  "  one  who  likes  ;  "  and  my 
friend  is  a  dilettante  ;  wrhich  I  take  to  be  a  fellow 
who  does  nothing  himself  and  dislikes  everything 
anybody  else  does. 

Well,  he  brought  the  MS.  back  next  day,  and 
said,  in  his  laziest  and  most  critical  manner,  that 
what  particularly  struck  him  in  the  way  I  had  told 
the  story  (with  the  details  of  which  he  also  was  fa 
miliar),  was  the  caption  I  had  chosen  for  the  first  chap 
ter.  "  For,"  he  said  (being  also  a  little  on  the  musical 
lay),  "you  have  carried  out  that  idea  in  your  work 
manship  ;  and  the  metaphor  of  the  melody  or  sym 
phony  (which  I  observe  you  cribbed  from  Schopen 
hauer),  is  not  ill-chosen.  Thus,  applying  it  to 
Guy's  history,  in  the  first  book  you  strike  the  key 
note  and  give  us  an  adagio.  Then  a  scherzo,  and  an 
allegro  affetuoso ;  in  the  fourth  book  an  andante ;  and 
finally  a  presto,  with  recurrence  to  the  theme  and 


viii  PREFACE. 

key-note.  Insensibly,  your  style  has  conformed  to 
this  idea,  which  I  am  not  sure  is  a  bad  one.  For  a 
life  is  made  up  of  a  few  movements,  all  bearing  a 
certain  relation  to  the  key-note  of  character  :  the 
peaceful  adagio  of  childhood,  the  allegro  of  youth, 
the  presto  of  the  Sturm  und  Drang  period."  At 
this  point  I  shut  him  up  ;  but  he  insisted  on  my 
putting  his  idea  in  a  preface. 

Having  apologized  for  the  story,  I  suppose  I  ought 
now  to  apologize  for  this  preface.  I  am  aware  that 
the  custom  of  writing  prefaces  is  old,  and,  like  that 
of  heading  chapters  with  apposite  quotations,  a 
grave  offence  against  modern  taste.  I  am  in  the 
quandary  of  the  Hindoo  philosopher,  who  supported 
his  world  by  an  elephant,  and  the  elephant  by  a  tor 
toise  ;  and  I  see  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow  the  good 
old  precedent,  and  leave  the  tortoise  unsupported. 

J.   S.,  OF  DALE. 
DENVER,  MARCH  31,  1881. 


GUERNDALE. 


#00lv    JltSt. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Now,  just  as  the  very  essence  of  Man  consists  in  this  :  that  his  Will  strives, 
is  satisfied,  strives  anew,  and  so  on  for  ever ;  so  the  essence  of  melody  consists 
in  a  continual  departure  from  the  key-note  ;  it  wanders  in  a  thousand  ways,  but 
always  comes  back  to  it  at  last." 

ON  one  of  those  dreamy  afternoons  in  August, 
when  all  audible  life  in  the  country  drowses 
away  to  a  faint  murmur,  and  we  float  through  the 
day  as  the  shifting  clouds  drift  across  the  sky,  you 
could  scarce  do  better  than  saunter  into  the  old 
churchyard  at  Dale.  There  is  an  indefinable  charm 
about  our  New  England  graveyards  which  is  often 
lacking  in  more  pretentious  cemeteries.  There  is 
little  gleaming  marble  and  heavy  stonework  ;  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  rude  slate  slabs  is  just  suffi 
ciently  moss-grown  to  deaden  the  sound  of  the  drop 
ping  nuts.  The  signs  of  recent  bereavement  are 
few ;  most  of  the  stones  are  softened  and  stained 
i 


2  GUERNDALE. 

into  harmony  with  the  sap-stained  pines  about  them. 
The  quiet  tenants  of  the  place  seem  rather  spell 
bound  than  dead  ;  and  the  sunset  air  breathes  softly 
about  the  -old  carven  letters,  as  if  wooing  the  dead 
to  forget  that  they  had  ever  lived.  Life  seems  so 
old  a  story,  and  so  long,  so  very  long,  ago.  And 
even  in  the  first  rich  bloom  of  autumn,  just  when 
the  fruit  of  the  labored  year  is  most  perfect,  nature 
seems  to  have  an  occasional  day  of  hush  and  pause, 
as  if  debating  whether  it  were  worth  while  to  go 
through  the  old  story  of  winter,  spring  and  summer 
once  more.  None  are  more  sad  than  these  days, 
when  the  earth,  in  all  the  flush  of  accomplished 
labor,  sighs.  It  is  like  the  sadness  of  a  man  at  the 
crown  of  his  ambition  ;  of  a  bride  in  her  honey 
moon. 

Dale  is  an  old  Massachusetts  village,  lying  nearly 
lost,  far  up  among  the  Berkshire  hills  ;  and  such  a 
day  as  this  was  wearing  away  the  letters  on  the 
churchyard  stones,  many  years .  ago  ;  and  some  such 
fancies  as  these  were  drifting  through  the  mind  of  a 
boy,  lying  by  the  bole  of  a  tall  hemlock,  and  look 
ing  dreamily  from  under  his  long  lashes  at  an  old, 
slate  gravestone.  Had  you  come  upon  him  sud 
denly,  you  would  have  started  at  seeing  him,  so 
intensely  still  he  lay ;  as  one  starts  at  a  squirrel, 
motionless,  just  before  it  flashes  along  the  wall  and 
vanishes.  Even  his  eyes,  deep  and  dark  as  they 
were,  seemed  rather  to  absorb  light  than  to  give  it 
out.  Otherwise,  an  ordinary-looking  boy  enough, 
except  for  a  vague  expression  of  sadness,  which, 
after  a  moment's  study,  seemed  not  so  much  an  ex* 


GUERNDALE. 


pression  as  an  hereditary  cast  of  featvire.  He  had 
been  reading,  with  some  difficulty,  part  of  the  old  in 
scription  on  the  slate  before  him  : 


"    .    .    .    oejmrteb 
singe  2*  ittcrcies  of  (B>oobes 
see  2e  Jtames  tot  vete  jj«  oatnneb." 


and,  in  a  curious,  half-boyish,  half-mature  way,  was 
thinking  about  it.  From  the  part  of  the  epitaph  that 
was  yet  legible,  it  seemed  a  matter  of  some  doubt 
to  which  of  two  possible  places  the  departed  spirit 
had  gone.  And  yet  the  nature  of  the  stone  was 
clearly  intended  to  be  laudatory  :  carven  thereon  was 
the  rude  semblance  of  a  weeping  willow,  shading  an 
urn  of  classic  shape,  while  a  bat-like  cherub  sur 
mounted  the  name  : 


iftistresee 
obit  £<  7ll)  of  Julii  1700,  act.  SI. 

He  wondered  whether  Mistresse  Anne  Dyar  knew 
she  was  dead,  and  if  she  were  aware  of  the  ambi 
guity  of  her  epitaph.  Or  perhaps  the  unknown 
rhymer  really  thought  that  the  windows  of  heaven 
commanded,  as  an  advertisement  would  say,  a  fine 
view  of  hell. 

All  this  rather  carelessly  ;  for  hell  had  long  since 
ceased  to  be  a  very  tangible  fact,  even  in  the  year  of 
grace  1858,  and  in  the  mind  of  an  impressionable 
boy.  To  be  sure  he  had  heard  old  Dr.  Grimstone 
lay  down  the  precise  location  of  hell,  and  then  enter, 
with  appalling  realism,  into  a  detailed  description  of 


4  GUERNDALE. 

the  ground-plan  thereof.  He  had  even  taken,  as  in 
tended  for  personal  application,  the  reverend  Doc 
tor's  denunciation  of  children  of  sin  and  creatures  of 
Satan,  and  had  slunk  home  considerably  abashed 
in  consequence.  But  when  the  Doctor,  between 
churches,  came  to  his  mother's  house  for  dinner — 
which  occasionally  happened,  for  his  father  had  been 
a  clergyman — and  laughed  very  heartily  at  his  own 
jokes,  besides  calling  him  "Sonny"  and  giving  him 
a  quarter,  he  began  to  fancy  that  the  good  old  Doc 
tor's  eloquence  depended  very  much  upon  scenic 
effect,  and  that  the  Devil  was  not  such  a  very  terri 
ble  personage  in  private  life  after  all.  He  knew  that 
most  of  the  people  in  Dale,  if  asked  directly  as  to 
their  belief  in  the  localities  aforementioned,  would 
have  answered  unhesitatingly  in  the  affirmative  ;  but 
was  not  this  from  motives  of  propitiation  and  a  pru 
dent  regard  for  possibilities  ?  Did  people  really  care 
as  much,  hope  as  much,  fear  as  much  as  they  pre 
tended  ?  It  was  very  pleasant  lying  half  buried  in 
the  long  churchyard  grass  that  afternoon.  Life  was 
rather  an  easy,  simple  thing,  and  all  about  him 
seemed  to  suggest  a  sort  of  grave  amusement  at 
people's  making  such  a  to-do  about  it. 

Suddenly  the  boy  started  up  upon  his  elbow.  His 
whole  appearance  and  attitude  changed  ;  he  no 
longer  seemed  part  of  the  hour  and  the  place,  but  a 
truant  school-boy  who  had  strayed  thither  by  mis 
take.  His  eyes  sparkled  with  fun  as  he  ran  rapidly 
across  to  the  high  stone  wall  which  skirted  the  dusty 
country  road.  Soon  after,  the  prattle  of  a  girlish 
voice  was  heard.  The  boy  crouched  for  a  spring 


GUERNDALE.  5 

over  the  wall  and  a  merry  surprise,  but  drew  back 
suddenly  into  the  shade,  as  he  heard  a  strange  voice 
pronounce  his  name. 

"  Guyon  Guerndale — who  is  he?" 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  girl,  "  don't  you  know  ? "  And  as 
the  two  little  figures  pattered  away,  Guyon  heard  the 
beginning  of  a  long  explanation.  But  he  still  re 
mained  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  as  if  surprised  or 
shy  ;  and,  as  the  two  children  disappeared  among  the 
willows  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  he  turned  and  wan 
dered  slowly  home,  keeping  by  the  meadows  at  the 
base  of  the  churchyard. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Alles  1st  nicht  todt,  was  begraben  ist." — HEINE. 

IN  the  days  when  the  hilt  of  a  sword  better  fitted 
a  gentleman's  hand  than  the  quill  of  a  pen,  and 
when  the  owner  of  the  sword  was  probably  simple 
enough  to  take  more  pride  in  his  well-shaped  leg 
than  in  his  clerkship — in  short,  in  the  year  sixteen 
hundred  and  eighty-eight,  there  lived  in  the  county 
palatine  of  Durham  an  old  cavalier  and  baronet,  Sir 
Godfrey  Guerndale.  A  right  stout  arm  and  a  right 
true  heart  had  Sir  Godfrey,  and  made  bold  to  be 
lieve  in  God  and  the  king.  Devoted  to  the  house  of 
Stuart,  he  followed  its  fortunes  to  the  bitter  end, 
though  its  fortunes  were  but  misfortunes,  and  the 
end  his  ruin.  While  he  saw  and  deplored  the 
cowardice,  irresolution,  and  misgovernment  which 
worked  the  downfall  of  that  dynasty,  he  could  not 
see  why,  if  James  Stuart  was  a  coward,  Godfrey 
Guerndale  should  be  a  traitor.  So  he  was  ever  ready 
with  his  ceunsel  and  his  sword  ;  and  the  one  was 
despised  and  disregarded,  while  the  other  was  used 
and  thrown  away.  Finally,  the  battle  of  the  Boyne 
was  followed  by  ignominious  flight  and  abandonment 
of  the  cause  he  thought  righteous,  and  Sir  Godfrey 
was  in  disfavor  for  the  same  loyalty  and  devotion 


GUERNDALE.  7 

his  rightful  lord  had  so  little  prized.  His  lands  en 
cumbered,  his  fortune  wasted,  his  very  plate  melted 
down,  he  found  himself,  in  the  prime  of  life,  without 
a  cause  and  without  a  king.  Disgusted,  once  for  all, 
with  the  unworthy  Stuarts,  he  refused  to  take  part 
in  the  numerous  Jacobite  intrigues  which  even  then 
were  forming ;  unwilling  to  accept  as  final  the  re 
sults  of  a  half-fought  contest,  he  disdained  to  seek 
favor  at  the  hands  of  one  whom  he  considered  an 
usurper.  Like  many  another  loyal  gentleman,  tak 
ing  with  him  what  remained  to  him  of  fortune  and 
of  faith,  he  sought  refuge  and  retirement  in  the  new 
world.  His  wife,  a  French  lady  of  the  Court  of 
Louis  XIV. — one  of  the  noble  family  of  La  Roche 
Guyon — refused  to  accompany  him,  and  saved  him 
the  trouble  of  compulsion  by  leaving  him  for  an  old 
friend,  an  ancient  companion  of  the  Merry  Monarch. 
Remaining  about  the  Court  of  St.  Germain  only  so 
long  as  was  necessary  to  run  his  sword  through  this 
gentleman,  Sir  Godfrey  departed  for  America.  His 
only  son,  then  a  youth  of  fourteen,  accompanied 
him — more  by  his  father's  will  than  his  own  inclina 
tion  ;  for  Guy  was  a  precocious  boy,  and  even  at 
that  early  age  considered  his  father  a  fool.  There 
also  went  with  him  an  old  and  valued  servant,  John 
Simmons  by  name,  \vho  passed  the  rigors  of  the  long 
voyage  in  drinking  strong  liquor  and  cursing  Dutch 
William  and  his  master's  French  wife. 

All  this  did  not  tend  to  give  Sir  Godfrey  a  taste 
for  New  England  society,  which  consisted  chiefly  of 
Puritans,  who  would,  in  the  words  of  Sir  John  Den- 
ham,  "  quarrel  with  mince-pies  and  disparage  their 


8  GUERNDALE. 

best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge  ;  fat  pig  and 
goose  itself  oppose,  and  blaspheme  custard  through 
the  nose."  Sir  Godfrey  was  fairly  disposed  toward 
these  people,  and  presumed,  as  he  intended  not  to 
trouble  them,  they  would  do,  or  rather  leave  undone, 
as  much  for  him.  Having  acquired  by  purchase 
from  the  Indians  a  large  tract  of  land  in  what  was 
then  a  wilderness,  Sir  Godfrey  lived  the  retired  life 
of  a  studious  country  gentleman,  and  waited  and 
watched  for  the  birth  of  a  Stuart  worthy  to  be  re 
stored. 

But  that  event  never  came.  The  old  baronet  lived 
long  enough  to  give  the  name  of  Guerndale  to  the 
settlement  springing  up  about  him,  and  died,  as  he 
had  lived,  a  disappointed  man,. soured  by  the  trea 
son  of  his  friend,  the  falseness  of  his  wife,  and  the 
unworthiness  of  his  king.  He  was  not  much  known, 
and  perhaps  as  much  feared  as  respected  among  the 
simple  and  bigoted  Puritans  of  the  neighborhood. 
His  quiet  memory  soon  faded  away,  and  what  little 
is  now  known  of  him  is  due  chiefly  to  the  researches 
of  genealogists  and  antiquarians.  In  the  early  col 
lections  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society  there 
is  some  mention  of  him,  and  I  think  Jones  mentions 
the  Guerndales  as  among  the  Tories  of  the  American 
Revolution.  All  the  early  traditions  of  the  family, 
however,  cluster  about  his  son,  "  Bad  Sir  Guy,"  a  so 
briquet  first  awarded  him  after  his  death.  His  rep 
utation,  being  positively  evil,  soon  obscured  that  of 
his  father,  which  was  negatively  good.  He  failed 
utterly  to  understand  Sir  Godfrey's  Quixotic  devo 
tion  to  an  idea,  and  his  sole  desire  was  to  return  to 


GUERNDALE.  9 

that  country  from  which  he  regarded  himself  as  un 
justly  exiled  ;  and  not  to  the  Court  of  St.  Germain, 
out  of  power,  but  to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  But 
he  no  more  wished  to  return  as  a  needy  supplicant 
of  royal  favor  than  as  the  blind  adherent  of  a  lost 
cause.  He  meant  to  regain  that  position  which  his 
father  had  cast  away  so  foolishly;  to  shine  again 
among  the  gallants  of  the  Court  ;  to  be  once  more 
lord  of  those  broad  demesne  lands  in  Durham,  held 
by  the  little  onerous  service  of  guarding  the  bones  of 
St.  Cuthbert  from  the  devil.  For  Guyon  did  not 
fear  the  devil,  and  did  not  think  this  would  be  diffi 
cult. 

Still,  to  accomplish  all  these  things,  money  was 
necessary ;  and  money  he  would  have.  He  must 
return  in  a  manner  befitting  his  rank  and  station. 
He  was  not  a  miser ;  he  did  not  desire  gold  for  its 
own  sake,  but  as  a  means  to  an  end.  But  that  means 
was  indispensable  ;  and  he  must  get  it  all  costs.  His 
father's  attachment  to  the  king  was  loyalty  ;  his  own 
was  measured  by  self-interest.  He  became  a  tool  of 
young  John  Churchill,  and  aftenvard  a  soldier  under 
Queen  Anne,  thereby  mortally  offending  his  father. 
It  were  an  endless  task  to  mention  the  numerous 
blots  on  his  reputation.  Thirty  years  ago  his  mem 
ory  was  yet  alive  in  Dale.  If  we  are  to  believe  the 
old  gossips,  pillage,  piracy,  and  treason  were  among 
the  least  of  his  crimes. 

He  soon  disappeared  from  the  army,  leaving  an 
evil  odor  behind  him  ;  and  it  was  hoped  he  was 
dead,  until,  after  his  father's  death,  he  turned  up  at 
Guerndale  with  a  young  and  beautiful  wife. 


10  GUERNDALE. 

Old  Solomon  Bung,  the  village  story-teller,  always 
accompanied  this  part  of  the  story  with  a  knowing- 
shake  of  the  head  and  the  fragmentary  phrase,  "  But 
they  do  say  ."  Whatever  they  do  or  did 

say,  the  memory  of  this  poor  girl  is  the  one  bright 
edge  to  the  story,  for  she  loved  her  evil  lord  de 
votedly  ;  and  with  her  sad,  but  \vinning  smile,  she 
soon  became  a  universal  favorite,  particularly  among 
the  poor,  or  that  class  which  most  nearly  approached 
the  poor  in  those  days  of  rustic  plenty.  Even  wicked 
Sir  Guyon  seemed  the  better  for  her  ;  and  all  might 
in  the  end  have  been  well,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
catastrophe  which  brought  the  name  of  Guerndale 
into  lasting  notoriety. 

Old  John  Simmons  had  faithfully  aided  his  mas 
ter,  Sir  Godfrey,  in  the  labor  and  troubles  which  at 
tended  his  settlement  in  New  England.  When  the 
mansion-house  \vas  built,  he  settled  contentedly  down 
in  one  corner  of  it  with  his  pretty  little  Puritan  wife, 
who  acted  as  housekeeper  for  them  all.  If  we  may 
trust  old  stories,  one  of  their  sons,  Philip,  was  by  no 
means  a  comfort  to  his  father  and  mother  in  their 
declining  years.  Living  some  distance  from  the 
nearest  settlements,  he  was  not  imbued  writh  the 
spirit  of  the  honest  people  of  the  neighborhood,  but 
became  a  protege  and  a  pupil  of  the  many  roving 
Indians  who  yet  lingered  about  the  place.  To  suc 
ceed  his  father  in  the  servile  position  he  seemed  to 
Philip  to  occupy,  soon  became  distasteful  to  him  ; 
and  when  old  John  died,  an  event  which  happened 
about  the  time  of  Sir  Godfrey's  death,  Philip  took 
his  father's  hard-earned  savings,  and  his  own  pick- 


GUERNDALE.  II 

ings  and  stealings,  and  bought  a  parcel  of  freehold 
land  adjoining  the  Guerndale  estate.  Here  Sir 
Guyon  found  him  on  his  return,  married,  and  living 
the  life  more  of  a  hunter  or  scout  than  a  farmer.  In 
him  he  recognized  a  kindred  spirit,  and  soon  re 
vealed  to  him  his  schemes  for  obtaining  that  wealth 
which  Guyon  so  eagerly  desired. 

The  real  resources  of  New  England  were  then  but 
little  known.  Projects  which  now  would  be  attrib 
uted  to  the  visions  of  a  madman,  were  then  soberly 
undertaken,  and  regarded  as  prompted  by  a  laud 
able  spirit  of  exploration.  The  old  myth  of  El  Dor 
ado  had  not  quite  disappeared  from  the  minds  of  the 
settlers  ;  nor  had  they  yet  realized  that  the  true 
wealth  of  New  England  lay  rather  on  the  surface  of 
her  soil  and  in  the  depths  of  her  seas,  than  in  the 
veins  of  her  barren  rocks.  Misled,  like  many  a  bet 
ter  man,  by  the  glitter  of  a  valueless  mineral,  Guyon 
passed  his  time  in  delving  at  the  base  of  the  rugged 
hills  which  lay  behind  his  house.  At  his  directions, 
a  rude  smelting-furnace  was  erected  ;  and  respect 
for  his  elder's  experience  and  determination  soon 
brought  Philip  Simmons,  insensibly,  to  the  same 
position  of  dependence  and  servitude  which,  in  his 
father,  he  had  despised.  Again,  though  in  a  less 
laudable  pursuit,  a  Simmons  was  the  faithful  servant 
of  a  Guerndale.  No  one  else  was  admitted  to  their 
labors  ;  secretly,  so  far  as  they  could,  the  two  mined 
and  smelted  ;  but  in  vain.  Yet  people  were  curious  ; 
and  doubtless  many  an  eye  had  watched  the  half- 
swaggering,  half-servile  demeanor  of  Philip,  and  the 
grim,  eager  face  of  Sir  Guyon,  when  the  features  of 


12  GUERNDALE. 

both  were  stamped  with  the  same  greed,  as  they 
turned  over  rock  and  sand,  or  cowered  silently  at 
night  over  the  red  furnace-fire. 

One  night,  from  farm  to  farm  ran  the  report  that 
Simmons  had  been  murdered.  A  boy  had  been  out 
hunting  that  afternoon,  and  had  lost  himself  at  dusk 
among  the  hills.  Tradition  says  that  it  was  a  misty, 
rainy  day  in  November,  and  little  was  to  be  seen  in 
the  hills  save  the  sombre  outlines  of  the  nearest  pine- 
forest,  and  the  varying  shades  of  blackness  in  the 
mist  that  marked  the  height  of  the  trees.  So  the 
boy  had  easily  become  confused  as  to  the  way,  and 
it  was  with  unusual  gladness  that  he  saw  bleared 
in  the  mist  the  red  glow  of  the  furnace-fire.  Made 
bolder  than  usual  by  the  inclemency  of  the  weather 
— for  even  then  the  forge  was  regarded  among  the 
common  folk  as  a  place  at  most  times  to  be  avoided 
— he  hurried  on  toward  the  door,  but  stopped  on  hear 
ing  the  sounds  of  an  angry  altercation  within.  Catch 
ing,  amid  the  curses,  the  words  "diamond,"  "  halves," 
"my  fair  share,"  he  rushed  to  the  little  square  win 
dow.  Over  it  was  stretched  a  sheet  of  isinglass  ;  and 
through  this  he  got  a  distorted  view  of  the  interior. 
At  one  corner  stood  Guyon  Guerndale,  his  face  pale 
with  rage,  his  left  hand  clutching  a  diamond  which 
the  boy  said  afterward  was  as  large  as  a  pigeon's-egg. 
Opposite  stood  Philip  Simmons,  his  back  against  the 
door. 

"  Bah,  fool !  let  me  pass  ? "  hissed  Guerndale.  And 
Guerndale  made  as  if  he  would  pass  through  the 
door,  which  Simmons  still  held.  "  Pshaw,  Simmons  ! 
be  a  faithful  servant,  as  your  father  was  before,  and 


GUERNDALE.  13 

trust  to  me  for  your  reward  !  I  may  make  you  a 
gentleman  yet — who  knows  ? "  Simmons,  with  a 
curse,  threw  himself  upon  his  master,  striking  him 
with  a  clenched  fist  upon  the  lip.  At  this  a  great 
flood  of  scarlet  swept  over  Sir  Guyon's  pale  cheek  ; 
he  drew  his  sword  from  the  scabbard  he  had  buckled 
over  his  working-dress,  and  struck  Simmons  to  the 
ground.  Striking  him  twice  again,  he  dashed  the 
lantern  to  the  floor  and  strode  out  of  the  cabin. 

All  this  time  the  diamond  was  flashing  in  his  left 
hand,  and  the  boy  believed  him  to  have  taken  it 
with  him.  Rooted  to  the  spot  with  fear,  he  could  do 
nothing,  but  heard  Guerndale's  heavy  tread  down 
the  bed  of  the  brook  which  formed  the  only  path  out 
of  the  valley.  Presently  the  cabin  took  fire  from 
the  lantern,  and  by  its  first  flames  the  boy  saw  Philip 
Simmons  still  lying  on  his  back,  with  a  wide  gash 
beneath  his  upturned  chin.  He  turned,  and  fled  to 
the  village. 

A  party  was  at  once  made  up  to  proceed  to  the 
smelting-furnace ;  the  cabin  was  found  in  ashes, 
among  which  was  the  body  of  a  man.  A  hue  and 
cry  was  raised  for  the  murderer.  Guerndale,  not 
expecting  so  speedy  a  pursuit,  was  found  in  his  own 
house,  calmly  making  preparations  for  flight.  At 
first  he  seemed  not  to  suppose  that  the  villagers 
would  dare  to  apprehend  him.  Brought  to  bay,  he 
showed  fight ;  and,  anxious  as  they  were  to  take  him 
alive,  he  was  killed  by  his  own  shot,  after  he  had 
cut  and  slashed  a  dozen  of  his  pursuers. 

That  night  his  lady  died,  leaving  behind  her  a 
boy,  destined  to  be  sole  heir  to  the  Guerndale  es- 


14  GUERNDALE. 

tate.  Not  a  very  large  principality,  you  will  say, 
for  all  that  the  king's  escheator  cared  to  trouble 
himself  about  was  forfeit  to  the  crown.  Hard  in 
deed  would  have  been  the  boy's  lot,  had  not  some 
yeomen,  well-to-do,  who  owed  their  all  to  early  kind 
nesses  of  his  mother,  taken  and  cared  for  the  poor 
little  creature,  who  already  seemed  unfortunate  in 
being  born  alive. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Guyon  Guerndale  had  been  buried, 
after  the  good  old  fashion,  at  the  meeting  of  four 
roads,  with  a  stake  through  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"All  men  are  born  free  and  equal." — Old  Song. 

TIME  went  on,  change  succeeded  change,  fortunes 
were  made  and  lost,  families  were  founded  and 
dispersed,  the  little  settlement  of  Guerndale  grew 
slowly  into  a  country  town,  and  yet  no  change  came 
in  the  fortunes  of  the  family  that  gave  the  place  its 
name.  It  ever  seemed  that  they  lived  only  in  the 
past,  and  had  their  hopes  buried  with  their  fortunes, 
at  that  fatal  date  in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  To  be  sure,  the  square  old  country-house 
was  left  them;  but  land,  wealth,  and  position  were 
gone.  The  disgrace  of  the  family  remained,  and 
stamped  itself  upon  the  nature  of  the  descendants  of 
Guy  on  the  murderer.  From  father  to  son  they  lived 
a  life  of  dreams ;  absorbed  in  books  and  contempla 
tion,  that  strain  of  ambition  and  action,  which  had 
been  so  evilly  used,  seemed  to  be  ended  and  buried 
with  its  last  possessor.  His  son,  who  came  into  the 
world  at  that  dark  moment,  struck  the  key-note  of 
the  lonely,  introspective  nature  which  remained  dom 
inant  in  the  lives  of  his  descendants.  Each  in  turn 
wrung  from  the  soil  the  scanty  subsistence  he  re 
quired,  married  in  due  time,  without  love,  and  died  in 
course,  leaving,  at  most,  two  sons  to  perpetuate  the 


10  GUERNDALE. 

misfortunes  of  their  race.  Family  pride  they  had, 
but  this  served  rather  as  a  motive  for  holding  aloof 
and  brooding  on  the  past,  than  for  taking  pail  in  the 
stirring  events  of  their  day.  In  the  Revolution  they 
were  Tories,  but  took  no  active  part,  and  were  easily 
overlooked  in  the  confiscation  which  followed.  In 
brief,  they  all  seemed  born  under  a  cloud;  each  felt 
it  his  duty  to  marry,  and  usually  married  beneath 
his  station.  Unknown  among  the  later  aristocracy 
growing  up  in  New  England,  they  refused  to  face 
the  trials  and  rebuffs  which  they  would  unavoidably 
meet  if  they  emerged  from  their  traditional  retire 
ment. 

Curiously  enough,  no  one  had  ever  seen  the  dia 
mond  since  that  dark  November  evening,  but  it  was 
believed  the  fatal  jewel  was  yet  retained  in  the  family 
of  Guerndale.  This  added  not  a  little  to  the  distrust 
with  which  the  possessors  of  the  stone  were  regarded. 
Keeping  the  object  of  the  crime  seemed,  as  it  were, 
a  ratification  of  the  crime  itself.  Yet  the  family  never 
would  part  with  the  jewel;  and  years  ago,  I  remem 
ber,  it  was  believed  by  the  older  people  of  the  town 
that  fortune  would  never  come  back  to  the  Guern- 
dalcs  until  they  lost  or  threw  away  the  ill-won  heir 
loom — a  common  tradition  enough  in  cases  of  this 
sort. 

So  time  passed,  and  brought  neither  happiness  to 
the  family  of  Guerndale,  nor  kindlier  feelings  to 
ward  them  on  the  part  of  the  neighbors. 

Meanwhile,  the  nature  of  the  place  changed  with 
the  nature  of  the  country.  The  Revolution  came 
and  went,  leaving  a  slight  accession  to  the  ill-repute 


GUERNDALE.  I./ 

in  which  the  family  were  held.  The  town  of  Guern- 
dale  became  the  centre  of  an  important  farming  dis 
trict.  Then  a  few  manufacturing  establishments 
sprang  up  along  the  brown  little  river.  Social  dis 
tinctions  were  levelled  ;  aristocratic  ideas  gave  place 
to  democratic  dogmas  ;  the  township,  from  an  oligar 
chy,  became  what  my  friend  Randolph  used  to  call 
a  demagogue-archy.  Even  the  old  Guerndale  mur 
der  became  a  thing  of  the  past — as  obsolete  as  an  old 
English  tragedy  by  the  side  of  Camille  or  Frou-frou. 
Only  the  impalpable  feeling  of  the  towns-people  to- 
ward  the  Guerndales  remained.  A  slight  odor  of 
disfavor  still  hung  about  them,  as  the  scent  of  oil 
still  lingers  about  the  rotten  Nantucket  wharves. 
Any  old-country  feeling  of  respect  for  the  founders 
of  the  town  must  have  disappeared  early  in  the 
present  century.  Many  people  were  now  there, 
more  wealthy  and  influential,  who  could  claim  to  be 
what  is  in  New  England  considered  of  "  good  family." 
Several  names  had  appeared,  with  due  iteration, 
every  thirty  years  or  so  in  the  Harvard  triennial  cata 
logue,  where  you  might  in  vain  have  looked  among 
the  fellows  and  graduates  for  a  Guerndale.  Several 
families  had  acquired  wealth  and  position  in  New 
York  or  Boston,  and  left  a  glory  behind  them  in  the 
little  town  of  their  nativity,  or  returned  to  grace 
their  ancestral  acres  with  pretentious  modern  man 
sions.  The  Simmonses,  for  instance — they  had  lived 
many  years  on  their  farm,  quite  as  long  as  the  Guern 
dales  ;  and  a  scion  of  that  stock  had  made  an  enor 
mous  fortune  by  introducing  salt  fish  into  South 
America.  He  had  come  back  to  Guerndale,  and  had 


I 8  GUERNDALE. 

been  well  known  as  the  richest  man  of  the  place  ; 
and  the  prominent  Boston  family  of  Symonds  are  his 
descendants.  This  Simmons  or  Symonds  (who  built 
the  Symonds  Memorial  Hall,  at  Harvard)  was  very 
active  in  changing  that  town-name  which  had  ever 
been  felt  by  the  more  progressive  citizens  as  servile 
and  un-American.  Who  were  these  Guerndales,  that 
they  should  inflict  their  name,  and  their  disgrace 
with  it,  upon  an  American  township,  as  if  it  were 
their  property  ?  They  owned  less  land  than  half  the 
farmers  about,  and  every  one  knew  they  had  not  a 
cent  to  bless  themselves  with.  So  argued  Squire 
Simmons,  and,  thought  his  fellow-citizens,  argued 
well.  But  then  came  the  question  of  change.  Here 
opinions  were  more  conflicting.  Some  favored 
Ephesus,  some  Arcadia,  some  New  Moscow,  others 
Anemonevale.  Squire  Simmons  argued  uecretly, 
but  long  and  earnestly,  in  favor  of  Simmonsville  ; 
indeed,  it  was  said  that  he  offered  to  build  a  town- 
clock  and  a  wooden  steeple  in  the  latest  style,  upon 
the  old  stone  town-hall,  if  they  would  adopt  that 
name.  But  to  this  proposal  there  was  much  quiet 
opposition,  in  spite  of  a  flaming  leader  in  the  Guern- 
dale  Weekly  Palimpsest,  calling  attention  to  the  "un 
precedented  munificence  latent  in  the  generous  pro 
position  of  one  of  our  townsmen,  that  true  gentleman, 
whom  we  feel  it  an  honor  to  call  our  fellow-citizen, 
Joseph  Simmons,  Esq."  Strange  to  say,  among  the 
old  farmers  there  was  found  some  reluctance  to  nav- 
ing  the  name  changed  at  all  ;  conduct  which  was 
characterized  by  those  citizens  who,  having  before 
lived  in  other  places  where  things  were  done  much 


GUERNDALE.  IQ 

better,  might  naturally  be  supposed  to  know,  as  "nar 
row-minded,  mean-spirited,  and,  worse  than  all,  un- 
American  ;  for  the  name  ought  to  be  changed,  in 
the  interest  of  progress  and  reform."  However,  the 
,  resultant  of  all  these  conflicting  forces  was  a  com 
promise.  An  objectionable  syllable  was  dropped, 
and  the  town  was  called  Dale.  Dale  it  is  at  present, 
and  Dale  it  will  probably  be  to  the  end  of  the  chap 
ter.  Squire  Simmons  was  in  high  dudgeon,  and 
shortly  afterward  he  departed  to  settle  permanently 
in  Boston,  having  previously  cut  up  all  his  outlying 
land  into  small  lots,  which  he  sold  at  ten  cents  a  foot 
to  the  employes  of  a  large  factory  he  was  then  build 
ing  in  Dale. 

Meantime,  old  Mr.  Godfrey  Guerndalc,  the  grand 
son  of  the  wicked  baronet,  was  at  work — as,  indeed, 
he  had  been  for  years — on  the  second  volume  of  his 
"  History  of  the  Usurpations  of  the  British  Crown," 
noticing  little  what  was  going  on  about  him,  and 
caring  not  very  much.  This  valuable  work  was  never 
finished,  but  was  left  as  a  sacred  legacy  to  his  son, 
the  third  Godfrey,  who  was  sent  to  college  that  lie 
might  acquire  a  taste  for  literature,  which  should  en 
able  him  to  complete  it.  At  college  he  was  shy,  re 
served,  and  apparently  morose  ;  known,  or  rather 
unknown,  by  the  appellation  of  "  Owly."  Mr.  Bon- 
nymort  once  told  me  that  he  was  his  only  friend,  but 
Guerndale  found  it  impossible,  with  his  nature,  in 
born  or  acquired,  to  be  completely  unreserved,  even 
with  him.  To  the  surprise  of  every  one  it  turned 
put,  after  graduating,  that  he  had  privately  married 
fm  orphan  girl  whom  he  had  met  at  the  house  of  one 


20  GUERNDALE. 

of  the  professors.  He  studied  for  the  ministry,  but 
was  never  able  to  get  a  parish,  although  he  had  set 
his  heart  upon  being  settled  in  his  native  town. 
His  dearest  ambition  was  to  gain  the  respect  and 
love  of  his  neighbors,  and  break  the  strange  blight 
that  seemed  to  hang  over  his  family.  In  this  he  was 
disappointed,  and  he  died  young,  leaving  one  son, 
Guyon,  who  was  about  ten  years  old  at  the  date  of 
my  first  chapter,  and  the  world,  and  more  than  the 
world,  to  his  widowed  mother.  Unwilling  to  bear 
his  daily  absence  at  school,  Mrs.  Guerndale  taught 
the  child  herself ;  moreover,  Guyon  himself  was 
loath  to  leave  her,  shunning  the  companionship  of 
other  children.  He  seemed  conscious  that  he  had 
little  chance  of  success  in  this  world.  For  he  might 
be  sure  that  whenever  his  action  or  his  inaction  was 
equivocal,  the  worst  interpretation  would  be  put 
upon  it.  The  presumption  was  against  him.  Not 
even  the  neighboring  farmers  looked  upon  the  boy 
with  favor.  He  was  a  pale,  uncanny  child,  with 
eyes  of  a  mature  expression  ;  and  they,  who  remem 
bered  the  past  better  than  the  villagers,  shook  their 
heads  and  said  that  the  name  was  unlucky,  for 
there  had  not  been  a  Guyon  in  the  family  since  the 
wicked  old  baronet,  who,  it  was  even  then  remem 
bered,  slept  his  troubled  sleep  at  the  cross-roads. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"Plus  doulces  luy  sont  que  civettes ; 
Mais  toutes  foys  fol  s'y  fia  : 
Soient  blanches,  soient  brunettes, 
Bien  heureux  est  qui  ricn  n'y  a  !  " — Villon, 

"  A  child    .     .     .    who  sends,  like  a  star,  the  first  rays  of  her  love  and  thought 
through  the  white  cloud  of  infancy." — Maurice  de  Guiritt. 

THE  old  Guerndale  mansion  is  large  and  square, 
and  its  color  has,  from  time  immemorial,  been 
brown.  It  is  built,  like  all  old  Massachusetts  houses, 
of  wood,  and  the  great  beams  of  hewn  oak,  hard 
enough  to  turn  the  edge  of  any  axe,  bend  and  bulge 
through  the  ceilings  and  floors.  It  stands  on  a  knoll, 
a  little  set  back  from  the  country  road,  and  guarded 
by  four  gaunt,  Lombardy  poplars.  In  the  shade  of 
the  house  lies  hushed  a  clear  little  brook,  still  foamy 
and  breathless  with  its  hurried  tumble  from  the  hills  ; 
but,  after  a  moment's  pause,  it  glides  under  the  road 
and  sparkles  down  through  the  meadow,  happily  un 
suspicious  of  the  coming  mills  and  dye-houses.  Guy- 
on's  earliest  memories  were  associated  with  this 
stream.  There  is  something  companionable  about  a 
brook  ;  it  lightens  up  a  wood  as  a  wood-fire  does  a 
winter  room.  Its  moods  vary,  its  caprices  change, 
so  that  it  is  hard  indeed  if  a  sympathetic  nook  may 
not  be  found  somewhere  along  its  course.  This 


22  GUERNDALE. 

brook,  in  particular,  was  the  only  playmate  of  his 
early  childhood.  His  home  stood  remote  from  other 
houses  ;  he  had  no  school  acquaintances,  and  such 
few  children  of  his  own  age  as  he  had  occasionally 
seen  in  the  neighborhood  rather  shunned  than  en 
couraged  his  advances.  Thus  he  learned  to  seek  di 
version  by  himself,  and  the  brook  became  a  great 
favorite.  It  was  not  long  before  he  had  followed  its 
course  up  to  its  boggy  source  amid  the  hills,  beyond 
the  site  of  the  old  forge  about  which  he  used  to  play. 
The  brook  floated  his  little  navy  and  turned  his  wa 
ter-wheels  with  that  cheerful  evenness  of  humor  so 
pleasing  in  our  inanimate  friends. 

There  are  times  when  one  finds  even  one's  best 
friend  rather  dull  ;  and  one  September  afternoon,  in 
the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-seven,  Guyon 
found  himself  rather  poor  company.  Some  boys  had 
just  passed  by  with  their  fishing-poles,  and  their 
happy  Saturday-afternoon  talk  had  aroused  an  after- 
tone  of  loneliness  in  his  own  thoughts.  Sensitive  to 
moods,  as  all  children  are,  though  incapable  of  ana 
lyzing  them,  it  never  occurred  to  Guyon  to  join  the 
fishing-party  ;  but,  as  usual,  he  started  up  the  brook, 
taking  with  him  a  lately  completed  craft  whose  geo 
metrical  mould  bespoke  the  inland  origin  of  the 
draughtsman.  He  walked  up  the  hill-side  toward 
his  favorite  pool,  where  the  water  circled  round  in 
momentary  irresolution  before  plunging  out  from  the 
edge  of  the  forest.  A  shady,  dewy  little  place  it  was, 
covered  by  a  luxuriant  grape-vine,  which  was  the 
reason  that  his  ears  were  first  to  warn  him  of  an  in 
vasion  of  his  haunt.  Feeling  instinctively  the  strat- 


GUERNDALE.  23 

egy  of  surprise,  he  crept  up  cautiously  and  peered 
through  the  vine,  the  sweetness  of  the  song  he  heard 
tempering  his  wrath  as  he  approached,  and  inducing 
a  mood  fatal  to  salutary  sternness,  for  he  had  omitted 
to  adopt  the  ancient  Odyssean  precaution  of  stopping 
his  ears.  And  a  pretty  picture  he  saw.  Seated  in 
"the  shadow  of  the  grape-vine  was  a  little  girl,  pluck 
ing  the  crimson  leaves  and  throwing  them  into  the 
pool,  where  they  eddied  around  in  a  circle,  as  if  dan 
cing  to  the  song  softly  crooned  by  the  little  siren 
above  them. 

Guyon  stood  as  if  spell-bound,  as  I  believe  his 
predecessors  in  that  adventure  have  usually  been. 
How  long  this  tableau  might  have  lasted,  it  is  im 
possible  to  say  ;  but,  his  eagerness  getting  the  bet 
ter  of  his  equilibrium,  there  was  a  sudden  plunge, 
a  scream,  and  consequent  confusion.  The  little  girl 
started  back  in  affright ;  but,  as  Guyon  emerged  rue 
fully  from  the  water,  the  sublime  gave  way  to  the 
ridiculous,  and  he  was  greeted  by  a  frank  burst  of 
laughter.  Rather  surprised  by  the  novelty  of  the 
emotion,  yet  relieved  now  of  embarrassment,  his  own 
features  broke  gradually  into  a  somewhat  depreca 
tory  smile,  as  he  waited  for  her  to  begin  the  conver 
sation.  This  she  finally  did,  on  the  offensive. 

"  Why  did  you  come  tumbling  into  my  brook  for  ?  " 

Evidently,  evasion  as  to  motive  and  riposte  as  to 
ownership  were  necessary. 

"'Tisn't  your  brook  ;  it's  mine." 

"  And  what  is  your  name  ?  "  (A  boy  would  have 
said,  Who  are  you  ?  but,  with  natural  feminine  diplo 
macy,  she  produced  the  same  effect  less  rudely.) 


24  GUERNDALE. 

"Guyon  Guerndale." 

And  then  he  hesitated,  as  if  conscious  that  this 
was  no  recommendation. 

"  Oh,  what  a  queer  name  !  "  And  then,  seeing  he 
was  wounded,  "Where  does  your  papa  live  ? " 

"  He  doesn't  live  anywheres.    He's  dead." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  !"  And  she  timidly  put  a  soft 
little  hand  out  to  his.  I  grieve  to  say  that  my  hero 
(but,  quite  as  much  to  his  own  surprise  as  hers) 
dropped  his  head  upon  his  knees  and  began  to 
cry.  Then,  suddenly,  he  started  up  as  if  ashamed. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  said,  rather  rudely,  by 
way  of  asserting  his  manhood. 

"  I  am  Annie  Bonnymort,  and  I  live  down  in  the 
big,  white  house  by  the  river.  Come  and  sit  down, 
Guyon  Guerndale,  and  see  how  pretty  the  leaves  go 
round.  And,  please,  don't  cry.  But  I'm  afraid  you're 
all  wet  ? " 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  not  wet,"  stoutly  asseverated  the 
new-comer.  "  Besides,  I  like  it." 

Whatever  inconsistency  there  might  have  been  in 
this  last  remark,  it  was  overlooked  ;  and  the  chil 
dren  were  soon  at  ease  in  each  other's  company.  The 
boat  was  brought  out,  and  pleased  Annie  so  much 
that  he  eagerly  promised  to  make  her  a  still  better 
one,  if  he  could  find  another  shingle.  And  then 
confidence  led  to  confidence  ;  and  he  told  her,  with 
true  masculine  egotism,  that  he  was  very  lonely,  and 
there  were  very  few  boys  around  whom  he  liked,  and 
Ned  Dench  and  Johnnie  Strang  had  gone  off  fishing  ; 
but  he  didn't  care  one  bit.  And  then  Annie  said 
that  she  didn't  like  boys  very  much — at  least,  most 


GUERNDALE.  25 

boys  ;  and  Guyon  at  once  mentally  classed  himself 
in  the  smaller  division,  and  Ned  Bench  and  other 
objectionable  creatures  among  boys  in  general ;  so 
that  the  evening  mist  came  floating  up  from  the  mea 
dow  before  Annie  suddenly  remembered  that  she 
must  hasten  home,  or  Papa  would  be  angry.  S.o  she 
went  to  find  her  nurse,  who  was  snoring  under  an 
oak-tree,  and  all  three  walked  back  together. 

"  Papa  says  I  may  go  to  church  with  him  to-mor 
row,  like  a  lady.  Do  you  go  to  church  ? " 

"Not  always,"  said  Guyon,  feeling  suddenly  that 
church  was  a  somewhat  desirable  place. 

"  Do  go.  You  are  big  enough  to  go  always." 
Whi  :h  would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  a  satisfactory 
reason  for  a  mature  mind.  But  Guyon  looked  for 
ward  that  night  with  unusual  pleasure  to  church 
the  next  day,  where  he  would  see  Ned  Dench  and 
ask  him  how  many  fish  he  had  caught.  He  did  not 
think  of  Annie. 

But  it  is  not  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
world  that  two  people  have  met  at  church. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations — 

One  sure,  if  another  fails." — R.  BROWNING. 

"  Yet  the  meeting-house  is  a  kind  of  windmill,  which  runs  one  day  in 
seven,  turned  either  by  the  winds  of  doctrine  or  public  opinion,  or,  more  rarely, 
by  the  winds  of  heaven,  where  another  sort  of  grist  is  ground,  of  which,  if 
it  be  not  all  bran  or  musty,  if  it  be  not  Blaster,  we  trust  to  make  the  bread  of 
life." — THOREAU. 

THE  next  morning,  when  the  pine-boughs  near 
his  window  were  first  blurred  upon  the  redden 
ing  horizon,  Guyon  awoke  and  hastened  out  of  doors. 
Involuntarily  he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  scene 
of  the  meeting  of  yesterday.  Except  that  the  frost 
of  the  night  had  turned  the  vine-leaves  a  deeper  red, 
nothing  had  changed  about  the  little  pool,  and  yet 
it  seemed  to  him  there  was  a  difference.  This  nook 
in  the  forest  was  now  a  place  to  him,  differentiated 
in  his  mind  from  any  other  little  woody  glade;  and 
the  day  had  become  a  date,  a  milestone  in  the  vista 
of  the  past.  He  felt  this  confusedly  as  he  looked 
about  him ;  there  was  the  mossy  rock  which  had 
been  the  cause  of  their  involuntary  meeting,  and 
relieved  him  from  his  natural  shyness ;  there  was 
the  little  bank  where  she  had  sat  and  scattered  the 


GUERNDALE.  2/ 

leaves  on  the  black  surface  of  the  pool ;  and  the  lit 
tle  shingle-boat  was  probably  caught  on  the  ledge  of 
rock  just  below.  He  almost  thought  that  he  would 
tumble  in  again  for  such  another  afternoon,  for  he 
was  not  a  child  to  whom  a  damp  pair  of  shoes  meant 
a  cold,  and  an  involuntary  bath  a  serious  illness. 
But  to-day  he  felt  the  unwelcome  stiffness  of  his 
Sunday  clothes — an  irksome  change  from  the  week 
day  suit,  which  had  grown  as  wonted  to  his  little 
person  as  the  feathers  to  a  water-fowl. 

This  reminded  him — without  the  usual  pang  ac 
companying  the  thought — of  church,  and  he  went 
home  to  be  brushed,  after  which  necessary  cere 
mony  the  boy  and  his  mother  set  off  in  the  family 
"carryall,"  driven  by  the  "hired  man;"  for  it  was 
still  the  time  when,  in  country  towns,  the  dignity  of 
independent  labor  was  felt,  and  any  faithful  retainer 
of  the  families  of  Dale  would  have  objected  to  the 
word  servant. 

The  church  was  like  many  another  New  England 
meeting-house — white,  wooden  and  perched  on  the 
top  of  the  hill,  as  if  to  attract,  by  its  conspicuous 
presence,  the  attention  of  the  Almighty  to  the  piety 
of  the  town.  Behind  it  was  a  long  shed,  where  the 
sedate  steeds  of  the  neighborhood  were  tied  with 
their  noses  to  the  wall,  as  if,  with  the  aid  of  wall  and 
blinders,  to  produce  a  state  of  introspective  abstrac 
tion  favorable  to  religious  thought.  Occasionally 
even  this  means  would  fail,  and  the  most  eloquent 
pause  of  the  preacher  be  broken  by  a  musical  phrase 
known  and  employed  as  such  only  by  Raff,  and  far 
from  an  ornamental  fioretura  to  the  conventional 


28  GUERNUALE. 

melodies  of  the  choir,  whose  "Duke  Street"  and 
"Amsterdam  "  rang  far  down  the  village  street. 

When  the  widow  entered,  they  had  ended  their 
voluntary  ;  appropriately  called  a  voluntary,  for  they 
chose  their  time  and  harmony  ad  libitum.  This  over 
ture  had  the  double  advantage  of  bringing  the  minds 
of  the  congregation  to  a  proper  state  of  anxiety,  and 
affording  them  an  excuse  for  turning  around  and 
watching  the  incomers.  As  each  beribboned  girl 
flaunted  up  the  aisle,  the  interest  became  more  in 
tense,  especially  among  those  girls  who  felt  their 
own  efforts  for  Sunday  review  less  successful.  The 
boys  attracted  less  attention,  and  while  their  faces 
blushed  with  conscious  cleanliness,  their  looks  be 
tokened  disgust  with  all  this  Persian  apparatus  and 
mutual  condolence  for  not  being  elsewhere.  This 
uneasiness  increased  during  the  service,  as  their 
hands  sought  their  trouser-pockets  and  felt  the  sad 
absence  of  the  accustomed  jack-knife  and  fishing- 
line. 

Guyon  Guerndale  paid  little  attention  to  his  com 
panions  in  misery.  He  was  watching  a  gray-haired 
gentleman  who  had  just  walked  in,  hand  in  hand 
with  a  little  girl  whose  light  brown  hair  and  dark 
brown  eyes  made  a  pretty  contrast  to  the  grave 
white  and  black  of  her  father's  head.  Guyon  had 
thrilled  with  pleasure  when  this  gentleman  recog 
nized  his  mother  with  a  stately  bow  ;  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  fact  that  the  Lord  was  in  his  holy 
temple  was  not  so  vividly  realized  by  him  as  the 
more  material  presence  there  of  Annie  Bonnymort. 

However,  the  long  sermon  was  endured  by  him 


GUERNDALE.  29 

with  exemplary  patience.  Old  Dr.  Grimstone  took 
for  his  text:  And  Zebedee  went  down  into  Bas/ian  ;  which 
he  developed,  as  usual,  in  many  logical  divisions, 
somewhat  as  follows: 

I.  a.  Character  and  previous  history  of  Zebedee. 
/3.  Elucidation  and  explication  of  mistakes  which 

had  previously  been  made  with  regard  to  the  char 
acter  and  previous  history  of  Zebedee. 

II.  a.  Enumeration    of  the   motives  which    might 
have  induced  Zebedee  to  undertake  the  journey  to 
Bashan,  but  were  not,   in  fact,  those  which  did  in 
duce  him  to  travel  thither. 

(3.  Probable  reasons  why  Zebedee  did  not  go  to 
sonic  other  place  than  Bashan. 

y.  Why  Zebedee  did  go  to  Bashan. 

III.  A  few  remarks  on  the  history — natural,  sacred, 
and  profane — of  Bashan  ;  with  an  apologetic  digres 
sion  on  the  bull. 

Here  the  doctor  made  a  pause  and  took  a  glass  of 
water  ;  which  moment  was  improved — by  the  boys 
openly,  and  their  elders  covertly,  in  glancing  around 
at  the  clock.  Deacon  Shed  gave  a  start,  and  looked 
about  defiantly.  Solomon  Bung  passed  down  a  parcel 
of  "  lovagc  "  to  his  proteges  below  him  in  the  gallery, 
for  Solomon  Bung  blew  the  organ.  This  delectable 
delicacy  was  received  with  some  excitement,  in  the 
course  of  which  a  palm-leaf  fan  slipped  from  the 
railings  and  fluttered  passively  down  on  the  head  of 
Squire  Strang,  the  lawyer,  who  bore  it  for  the  mo 
ment  with  Christian  fortitude.  Dr.  Grimstone  mopped 
his  face,  and  continued — while  Squire  Strang  looked 
up  to  the  gallery  with  a  savage  frown — "  A  few 


3O  GUERNDALE. 

words  more,  my  dear  friends."  The  boys  knew  this 
to  mean  twenty  minutes,  and  murmured  slightly 
among  themselves. 

IV.  What  would  have  been  the   possible  conse 
quences,  had  Zebedee  gone  elsewhere. 

V.  Triumphal  return  to  the  key-note,  and  reitera 
ted  assertion  that  Zebcdcc  went  down  into  Bashan.    This 
fait  accompli  satisfactorily  disposed  of, 

"AND  NOW" — said  the  doctor. 

The  boys  sprang  to  their  feet ;  there  was  a  general 
rustle,  and  all  rose  for  the  benediction.  The  doxol- 
ogy  was  sung  with  vim  and  rejoicing.  The  boys 
waited  with  tense  muscles  for  the  last  amen,  and  then, 
unanimously,  were  no  longer  there.  Most  of  the 
old  ladies  stayed  behind  to  compliment  the  minister 
on  his  sermon,  or  gossip  lightly  on  men,  women,  and 
things — chiefly  women,  and  the  appurtenances  there 
unto  belonging.  Mr.  Bonnymort  came  up  and  be 
gan  conversation  with  Mrs.  Gucrndale,  and  the  chil 
dren  were  once  more  together. 

The  next  half-hour  was  spent  in  walking  home 
under  the  elms  ;  and  Guyon  returned  to  the  quiet 
old  house,  happy  in  having  been  so  lately  happy, 
with  an  invitation  to  tea  at  Mr.  Bonnyrnort's.  And 
much  care  did  his  patient  mother  bestow  upon  his 
attire  (which  necessary  offices  seemed  to  him  less 
irksome  than  formerly),  for  were  not  the  Bonnymorts 
among  the  nicest  people  that  had  ever  gone  city 
ward  from  Dale  ?  And  though  Mrs.  •  Guerndale 
lived  a  retired  life,  she  was  not  without  that  knowl 
edge  which  gives  the  word  gentleman  its  connota 
tions  ;  and  liked  to  think  that,  shy  and  old-fashioned 


GUERNDALE.  31 

as  he  might  be,  there  was  not  a  better-mannered  boy 
than  her  son  in  all  Dale. 

So  Guyon  went  over  to  tea,  sleek  with  that  unusual 
sleekness  which  careful  mothers  consider  perfection 
in  a  boy's  dress  ;  paler  than  ever  in  the  plain  black 
suit  and  tie  which  he  still  wore  on  Sundays,  in  mem 
ory  of  his  father.  Mourning  in  New  England  had  a 
faint  smack  of  ceremony  about  it,  which  made  it 
linger  longer  about  one's  Sunday  dress  than  the  less 
pretentious  week-day  garb.  Somewhat  embarrassed 
of  his  person  was  the  boy,  as  he  entered  the  house  ; 
but  the  kindly  old  gentleman  soon  put  him  at  his 
ease,  and  he  thought  afterward,  with  some  surprise, 
thai  he  had  found  it  less  difficult  to  talk  to  him  than 
to  most  of  the  village  people  ;  even  less  so  than  with 
the  smart  boys  of  the  neighborhood,  who  usually 
made  him  painfully  conscious  of  his  own  demerits. 
He  had,  indeed,  been  somewhat  awed  when  the  three 
marched  solemnly  in  to  tea,  and  were  waited  on  by 
an  old  man  !  But  this  was  soon  lost  in  observing 
how  prettily  little  Annie — though  only  nine  years  old, 
she  had  told  him — poured  out  the  tea,  which  was 
then  solemnly  borne  around  upon  a  silver  salver. 
For  poor  Annie,  as  Mr.  Bonnymort  said,  with  a 
quiver  in  his  voice,  had  lost  her  mother,  and  seemed 
older  than  her  years. 

After  tea  the  children  laid  many  plans  for  future 
amusement.  The  boy  promised  to  take  her  up  in 
the  woods — up  -in  the  great  gorge  where  the  ruins 
were  ;  and  Annie  said  papa  had  promised  to  send  her 
to  Miss  Laighton's  school  :  was  not  he  going  too  ? 
And  Guyon,  who  had  learned  to  read  and  write  at 


32  GUERNDALE. 

home,  and  always  rebelled  bitterly  at  the  constraint 
and  enforced  society  of  school,  felt  suddenly  a  lively 
desire  for  further  instruction.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Bon- 
nymort  read  a  strange  language  in  a  splendid  large 
book,  which  Annie  catching  sight  of,  begged  to  see, 
for  it  was  full  of  wonderful  pictures.  Nor  were  the 
children  satisfied  until  they  had  seen  them  all ;  the 
earlier  ones,  which  were  dark  and  terrible,  as  well  as 
the  later  ones,  which  were  brighter  and  brighter, 
until  the  last  was  almost  a  blank  page  for  the  light. 
But  in  every  picture  was  a  dark,  sad-eyed  man,  hold 
ing  an  angel  by  the  hand.  And  Annie  said  she  liked 
the  bright  ones  best ;  but  Guyon  did  not  know,  for, 
he  said,  perhaps  they  would  not  have  thought  them 
so  lovely  if  they  had  not  seen  the  sad  ones  first.  At 
last,  when  the  book  was  ended,  it  seemed  to  him  time 
to  go.  Mr.  Bonnymort  asked  him  to  come  often  and 
see  him  and  Annie,  for  his  father  had  been  an  old 
friend  of  his  at  college. 

And  Guyon  walked  home  through  the  autumn 
evening,  wondering  if  Mr.  Bonnymort  ever  liked  his 
father  as  much  as  he  liked  Annie,  and  decided  that 
he  would  go  to  school  and  study,  and  learn  things, 
and  in  the  winter  go  "coasting "  with  the  other 
boys,  and  play  with  them,  and  make  friends  with 
them  ;  and  so  on,  more  than  he  ever  thought  of  the 
future  before  :  for  somehow  it  seemed  to  him  there 
was  much  more  in  the  world  he  wished  to  do  than  he 
had  supposed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Loved,  if  you  will ;  she  never  named  it  so  : 
Love  comes  unseen,  we  only  see  it  go." — AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

ONLY  after  many  struggles  with  his  shyness  did 
Guyon  finally  set  off  for  school,  one  frosty 
morning  in  November  ;  the  first  of  a  numberless  suc 
cession  of  mornings  in  which  he  was  to  hurry  across 
the  meadow,  along  the  river,  and  up  the  avenue  to  call 
for  Annie  ;  then  down  the  long  street  to  the  little 
schoolhouse.  And  yet  this  first  plunge  into  the  reali 
ties  of  life  was  less  terrible  than  he  had  feared.  He 
had  learned  to  read  and  write  at  home,  and  never  had 
that  bodily  fear  of  books  which  seems  to  possess  many 
a  healthier  boy,  as  of  a  drawer  of  dentist's  tools,  or  a 
pill-box.  But  his  great  difficulty  was  to  get  along  with 
the  other  boys.  He  was  with  them,  but  not  of  them. 
So  you  might  take  a  bottle,  webbed,  and  mildewed 
with  the  damps  of  some  ancestral  cellar,  the  wine 
ripened  and  mellowed,  and  saddened  by  long  time 
past,  and  decant  it  into  a  quart-jug  of  the  sharp" 
hard,  New  England  cider.  No  such  far-fetched 
simile  ever  occurred  to  Guyon  ;  but  he  was  even 
then  vaguely  conscious  that  the  mixture  was  not 
happy.  In  the  real,  objective,  wilful  life  of  other 
boys,  his  own  had  no  part.  When  they  thought  of 


34  GUERNDALE. 

him  at  all — which  was  much  less  often  than  Guyon 
fancied — they  thought  of  him  with  that  careless  con 
tempt  which  one  boy  has  for  another  who  is  not  up 
in  his  games  ;  who  cannot  throw  a  stone  so  far ;  who 
does  not  excel  at  top  or  trap,  ball  or  marbles  ;  who 
is  not  blessed  with  the  desired  and  influential  friend 
ship  of  Jim,  the  brakeman,  much  less  Jo,  the  engi 
neer  ;  or  Solomon  Bung,  supreme  over  all  in  luring 
the  muskrat  to  the  steel-trap,  the  rabbit  to  the  seduc 
tive  "twitch-up,"  or  in  setting  night-lines  for  those 
fresh-water  ghouls,  horn-pout.  Moreover,  a  crime 
above  all  others,  Guerndale  liked  girls — for  his  com 
pany  with  Annie  did  not  escape  notice. 

This  ignoring  of  girls  is  a  curious  phase  in  the  de 
velopment  of  the  masculine  mind.  There  would  al 
most  seem  to  be  a  polaric  relation  between  the  sexes  ; 
a  magnetic  attraction  or  repulsion,  which  varies  with 
different  ages  as  a  magnet  itself  varies  with  the  spots 
on  the  sun.  Thus,  from  infancy  to  youth,  boys  run 
away  from  girls.  From  youth  to  marriage,  girls  run 
away  from  boys.  After  marriage,  they  run  away  from 
each  other. 

Much  healthy  contempt  was  therefore  felt  for 
Guyon  as  a  girl's  boy.  Such  weakness  and  frivolity 
could  not  be  pardoned,  and  his  position  was  not  a 
pleasant  one  in  the  social  microcosm  of  school. 
And  even  the  girls,  though  more  lenient  to  his  great 
fault,  found  it  hard  to  overlook  the  bad  taste  of 
his  preference  ;  for  Annie  had  taken  that  doubtful 
place  which  results  either  in  sovereignty  or  com 
plete  disapproval,  as  the  breath  of  popular  prejudice 
turns  the  balance.  Unfortunately,  or  fortunately,  her 


GUERNDALE.  35 

father  forbade  her  presence  at  a  Sunday-school  pic 
nic  ;  and  when  Amanda  Shed  expressed  her  opinion 
that  Annie  was  "  stuck-up,"  it  was  universally  felt 
:that  this  judgment  was  final ;  and  Annie  was  &pou- 
voir fini  from  that  time  forth. 

And  Guyon  himself  soon  fell  under  the  iron  rod 
of  the  great  Amanda.  This  young  lady  possessed 
in  a  high  degree  a  fondness  for  the  unknown  in  mas 
culine  character.  A  similar  trait  is  observed  in  all 
children  ;  but  in  girls,  it  is  the  more  noticeable,  as 
exercised  upon  a  higher  object.  For,  whereas  boys 
experiment  upon  corpora  villa,  girls  wish  beings  pos 
sessed  of  a  soul.  Boys  impale  beetles,  decapitate 
turtle^,  starve  reptiles,  interfere  with  the  domestic 
arrangements  of  birds,  and  tie  tin-kettles  upon  dogs' 
tails  ;  it  is  true.  But  girls  scarify,  excoriate,  and 
otherwise  exacerbate  the  boys  themselves  ;  and  while 
these  latter  either  lose  their  cruel  curiosity  on  arriv 
ing  at  manhood,  or  apply  it  to  the  legitimate  vivisec 
tions  of  science,  girls  do  not  so,  but  continue  then" 
evil  practices,  apparently  with  a  mere  view  to  sport. 

However,  in  both  cases  the  object  is  the  same : 
boys  desire  to  study  the  effect  of  physical  emotion, 
girls  that  of  psychical  emotion,  on  other  organisms 
possessed  of  will.  Both  boys  and  girls  desire  to  see 
which  way  the  worm  will  squirm,  and  whether  the 
nature  of  the  squirming  will  vary  with  the  nature  of 
the  stimulus  ;  and  in  neither  case  is  there  any  sym 
pathy  with  the  suffering  of  the  corpus  vile.  The  boy 
regards  the  movements  of  the  tortured  turtle  with 
the  delight  of  gratified  curiosity ;  girls  and  wo 
men  have  perhaps  the  additional  pleasure  of  a 


36  GUERNDALE. 

gratified  sense  of  power;  but  that  is  all.  Indeed, 
the  boy  is  perhaps  the  more  humane  operator  ;  for 
boys  do  occasionally  end  the  process  in  a  feeling  of 
disgust,  remorse,  or  affection,  according  as  the  tor 
tured  animal  shows  fight,  dies,  or  pleads  for  compas 
sion.  If  it  be  visibly  proved  that  a  turtle  cannot  live 
with  a  brick  on  its  back,  the  boy  may  suffer  a  tran 
sient  regret  at  the  animal's  death.  If  the  cur  he  has 
sought  with  views  of  kettles,  or  caudal  applications 
of  fire-crackers,  show  gratitude  for  his  notice  and 
lick  the  hand  of  the  operator,  perhaps  the  latter  feels 
a  responding  affection  ;  instances  have  even  been 
known  where  he  has  adopted  the  dog.  But  no  such 
weakness  has  yet  been  observed  in  female  operators  : 
the  woman  never  allows  the  subject  of  the  experi 
ment  to  enter  into  subjective  relations  with  her  ;  still 
less  does  she  adopt  the  poor  devil  of  a  dog.  Through 
out  the  operation  she  considers  the  animal  in  a  light 
purely  artistic.  If  the  animal  die,  her  blue  eyes 
open  wider  in  a  stare  of  mild  surprise.  If  he  be 
come  aggressive  and  a  bore,  she  utters  a  petulant 
expression  of  disgust  and  throws  him  out  the  win 
dow.  If  the  animal  limp  away  with  a  broken  heart, 
she  looks  up  with  a  pleased  smile  from  her  success 
ful  experiment,  and  turns  her  attention  to  the  next 
subject.  Look  at  Miss  Dubloon  and  poor  Harry 
Maravedi,  down  at  Surfside  last  summer.  Had  Miss 
D.  any  idea  of  marrying  him  ?  did  he  ever  cause  her 
any  emotion  whatever  at  any  moment  of  the  flirta 
tion  ?  Not  the  slightest.  My  word,  she  simply 
wished  to  try  whether  he  really  would  fall  in  love 
with  her ;  and  if  so,  which  way  he  would  squirm. 


GUERNDALE.  37 

Her  curiosity  satisfied,  the  corpus  vile  has  gone  out  on 
a  cattle-ranche.  All  of  which  is  a  good  deal  of  ex 
planation  and  analysis  for  the  simple  motives  of  a 
country  girl  like  Mandy  Shed  ?  My  dear  fellow,  the 
nature  of  the  animal  is  the  same  all  the  world  over. 
In  the  simplest  debutante  or  "bud"  you  will  find  all 
the  curious  convolutions  of  the  full-grown  flower. 

When  Guyon  first  dawned  upon  the  horizon  of 
Mandy  Shed,  he  was  an  unknown  and  curious  fact ; 
quite  different  from  the  well-tested  male  creatures 
by  whom  she  had  been  so  long  surrounded,  and 
among  whom  the  mot-d'ordre  was  contempt  for  every 
thing  feminine.  Her  curiosity  was  aroused,  and 
thus  the  strongest  and  most  essential  condition  of 
the  reaction  was  provided.  So  she  began  by  treating 
Guyon  with  soft-soap  and  smiles.  He  was  impervi 
ous.  Then,  a  provoking  indifference  failed  of  effect. 
Alternate  malice  and  caprice  won  him  not,  caused 
no  squirming  in  this  oddly  mailed  animal.  Finally, 
she  asked  him  to  the  pic-nic. 

Guyon  was  not  page-in-waiting  at  a  French  court, 
and  his  answer  was  fatal. 

He  said,  "  Is  Annie  Bonnymort  going  ?" 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  he  joined  her  in 
the  pleasant  country  about  Coventry.  And  often, 
in  later  life,  he  wished  that  a  considerate  world  of 
grown  people  had  acted  as  kindly  as  his  childish 
enemies. 

For  they  left  him  with  Annie  ;  and  the  winter 
wore  on,  and  Guyon  and  Annie  and  the  woods  grew 
up  together.  In  the  morning  he  dragged  her,  on 
his  sled,  to  school,  and  back  at  night,  coasting 


38  GUERNDALE. 

down  all  the  hills  on  the  way.  And  Saturday  after 
noons  were  devoted  to  all  out-doors  ;  than  which, 
Guyon  grew  up  to  think,  nothing,  not  even  Annie, 
could  be  more  pleasant. 

For  there  were  afternoons  when  the  sky  was 
gray,  and  the  country  like  a  drawing  on  a  slate  ; 
and  yet  in  the  woods  the  usual  places  of  shade 
were  all  white,  and  the  boles  of  trees  were  white, 
and  the  feathery  labyrinth  of  twigs  above  was 
all  white  tracery  against  a  white  sky;  and  perhaps 
far  over  the  gray  landscape,  on  the  horizon,  was 
the  great  gleam  of  a  sunlit  mountain,  Graylock  or 
Monadnock.  Then  there  were  afternoons  when  it 
was  spring,  despite  the  stillness  and  the  snow  ;  the 
white  shroud  shrank  visibly,  and  around  every  tree- 
trunk  was  a  little  crack  between  it  and  the  snow 
melting,  as  if  to  give  it  room  to  grow  ;  and  a  little 
tinkle  came  faintly  through  from  the  hidden  brook 
like  the  music  of  another  Orpheus  to  move  the  world 
and  vivify  the  very  moss  on  the  rocks.  And  there 
were  days  with  a  sky  of  May,  when  the  liquid  air 
could  be  seen,  and  yet  through  it  the  country  be 
yond,  like  a  landscape  pictured  in  a  crystal  ;  when 
each  varying  shadow  came  out  in  unexpected  rich 
ness  of  color,  like  a  painting  newly  oiled.  And  the 
boy's  eyes  would  glow,  and  his  face  flush,  and  his 
limbs  grow  nimble — even  his  shyness  vanishing,  in 
the  loveliness  of  the  living  world.  And  Annie,  only 
partly  sharing  his  excitement,  would  wonder  at  the 
change.  And  even  then,  if  Ned  Bench  or  Ury 
Sprowl  came  by,  he  would  suddenly  shrink  back 
into  his  usual  quiet  self,  like  a  chameleon. 


GUERNDALE.  39 

Guyon  must  have  felt  instinctively  that  the  boys 
did  not  like  him,  and  he  would  offer  no  foothold  for 
their  ridicule.  So  the  boys  would  go  by,  laughing, 
probably  really  not  thinking  much  about  him,  while 
Guyon  would  brood  for  hours  on  the  unpleasant 
things  he  thought  they  thought  of  him.  And  he 
grew  fonder  yet  of  Annie. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Defaites  vous  de  votre  optimisme,  et  figurez  vous  bicn  que  nous  somraes  dans 
ce  monde  pour  nous  battre  envers  et  centre  tous." — PROSPER  MBRIMEE. 

IT  was  a  year  after  all  this,  the  day  of  Guyon's 
autumn  afternoon  reverie  in  the  churchyard. 
Annie  had  expected  a  cousin  that  afternoon,  who 
was  coming  to  live  in  Dale,  for  a  time,  and  so  Guy 
had  gone  off  under  the  pine  trees  to  watch  the  squir 
rels.  Then  he  went  home  and  found  what  would 
most  have  pleased  him  at  any  other  time — a  message 
from  Mr.  Bonnymort  for  him  to  come  and  take  tea 
with  Annie.  He  felt  that  he  should  probably  meet 
there  the  owner  of  the  strange  voice,  and  shrank 
with  all  his  old  timidity  from  the  meeting.  Still,  he 
also  felt  anxious  to  see  him  ;  he  wanted  him  to  un 
derstand  thoroughly  that  he,  Guyon  Guerndale,  was 
Annie's  chosen  companion  and  friend,  and  that  a 
third  would  be  admitted  to  their  pleasures  only  as 
of  courtesy,  not  of  right.  For  he  never  doubted  that 
Annie  would  feel  as  he  did  ;  he  judged  her  by  him 
self.  Moreover,  he  had  found  a  new  brook  up  in  the 
hills,  and  had  been  reserving  for  Saturday  the  great 
delight  of  exploring  it ;  thus  he  had  a  certain  advan 
tage  of  position  as  to  the  newcomer. 

When  he  had  walked  across  the  wide  piazza,  less 


GUERNDALE.  41 

eagerly  than  usual,  and  was  about  to  enter  the  hall, 
he  stopped  on  seeing  within  a  lady,  dressed  in  a  con 
fused  elaboration  of  silks.  She  turned  about,  with  a 
portentous  rustling,  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and  said, 

"  What  do  you  want,  little  boy  ?  " 

Guyon  was  frightened  and  perplexed.  There  was 
something  about  the  attendant  sweep  of  silk  with 
which  the  lady  moved — their  crisp  rustle  seeming  to 
exact  your  attention,  and  preceding  slightly  each 
movement  with  an  ominous  noise  of  preparation — 
which  made  the  whole  effect  of  her  approach  rather 
overawing.  Then,  what  was  he  to  say  to  a  question 
"what  he  wanted  ?  "  Should  he  reply  tea  ?  Or,  that 
he  came  by  invitation  ?  He  was  just  beginning,  "  I 
think  Mr.  Bonnymort  expects  me — "  when  a  clear, 
boyish  voice  broke  in, 

"  Hallo,  Mamma,  that's  Guerndale.  /  know  him. 
Saw  him  this  afternoon  sleepin'  down  at  the  ceme 
tery." 

At  this,  the  lady  smiled  graciously  to  Guyon,  who 
was  looking  with  pleased  surprise  at  the  speaker, 
and  said  that  he  might  come  in.  "  Oh,  and. you  are 
young  Guerndale  ?  That  is  my  boy — Phillie  Sym- 
onds,  and  I  am  Mrs.  Symonds." 

Guyon  did  not  seem  so  much  impressed  with  this 
announcement  as  she  perhaps  expected,  but  "  Phil- 
lie  "  was  already  hurrying  him  off  to  the  garden.  "  I 
say,"  said  he,  "don't  call  me  Phillie — Mamma  always 
calls  me  that  'cause  she  thinks  I'm  a  baby.  My 
name  is  Philip  Schuyler  Symonds.  But  you  can  call 
me  Phil.  And  your  name,  what's — oh,  I  know, 
Guyon.  What  a  queer  name  !  I  can't  call  you  that, 


42  GUERNDALE. 

you  know — it's  too  long.  I  might  call  you  Guy. 
Where's  Annie  ?  she's  a  brick,  isn't  she  ?  that  is,  for 
a  girl.  I  told  her  so.  Have  you  got  a  gun?  I  have. 
It's  got  two  barrels,  too.  It's  Jim's,  but  I  took  it 
when  we  left  Boston.  Don't  tell  Mamma,  though. 
She  don't  know.  I'm  goin'  off  shootin*  to-morrow." 

He  was  a  handsome  boy,  with  a  rosy,  bright  face, 
and  yellow  curls,  which  grew  well  down  over  his 
forehead  and  fell,  now  and  then,  over  his  quick  gray 
eyes.  Guy  felt  companionship  with  him  a  novelty. 
There  was  something  aggressive  about  his  move 
ments  ;  everything  he  did  impressed  you  with  that 
nervous  wilfulness,  rather  than  will,  which  springs 
from  animal  spirits  and  careless  self-confidence.  It 
was  all  quite  new  to  Guy,  this  active,  intrusive,  ob 
jective  person,  who  entered  so  directly  into  relations 
with  his  own  self  ;  not  as  other  boys  had  been,  whom 
he  suffered  passively,  so  little  did  their  orbits  cross 
his,  but  as  a  force  of  character,  necessarily  deter- 
minable  for  friendship  or  the  reverse.  Guy  thought 
all  this  with  that  deep  consciousness  of  a  thoughtful 
childhood,  which  feels,  though  it  be  but  vaguely, 
more  than  the  philosophy  of  manhood  can  express. 

Meanwhile  Philip  trotted  along,  chattering  ques 
tions  and  paying  but  little  attention  to  the  answers, 
to  the  little  old  pond  in  the  garden.  This  pond  was 
a  hot,  sleepy  place  in  summer  ;  stone-rimmed,  with 
water  none  too  clear,  giving  a  safe  asylum  to  the  fat, 
yellow  bull-frogs  that  gravely  thrust  their  green 
heads  through  the  scummed  surface  of  the  water,  or 
basked  contentedly  on  the  old  logs  that  floated  here 
and  there,  motionless,  stuck  fast  in  the  green  slime. 


GUERNDHLE.  43 

The  pond  was  shut  in  by  a  fringe  of  dingy  ever 
greens,  that  kept  off  the  light  and  seemed  to  inten 
sify  the  heat.  Philip  at  once  seized  a  stick,  and  be 
gan  threshing  the  water,  usually  hitting  with  a  huge 
splash  the  place  where  the  lazy  green  head  had  just 
been,  but  was  no  longer.  With  a  natural  delight  in 
destruction,  the  two  boys  had  soon  a  dozen  or  more 
of  the  frogs  ranged  on  the  stone  curb,  and  the  pond 
so  well  beaten  that  even  its  most  imperturbable 
denizen  had  sought  refuge  in  the  muddy  depths. 
Their  game  exhausted,  conversation  became  again 
in  order. 

"What  fellers  are  there  here  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  don't  like  them.  At  least,  not 
very  much." 

"  I  saw  one  boy  as  I  came  up  from  the  depot.  I 
think  I  can  lick  him"  he  added  meditatively.  Guy 
looked  at  him  with  some  admiration. 

"  Do  you  collect  eggs  ? "  continued  Philip.  "Mam 
ma  says  I  mustn't  take  but  one  at  a  time,  because 
I  don't  need  but  one  of  each  kind.  But  then,  I  do ; 
'cause  I  can  swap  the  others  off.  This  would  be  a 
bully  place  for  teetlybenders."  And  the  boy  looked 
around,  as  if  at  a  loss  for  action. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  I'll  do.  I'll  stump  you  to  jump 
over  here ! " 

And  running  back,  he  cleared  the  narrow  part  of 
the  pond  at  a  bound,  and  landed,  with  a  crashing  of 
bushes,  on  the  other  side.  Guy  had  a  dim  feeling  that 
he  was  being  curiously  involved  in  uncongenial  pur 
suits.  However,  not  wishing  to  lower  himself  in  the 
eyes  of  his  new  companion,  he  made  a  rush,  tripped 


44  GUERNDALE. 

on  a  bush,  and  alighted  in  the  water,  two-thirds  of 
the  way  across.  Philip  threw  himself  upon  his  back 
and  kicked  up  his  heels  in  an  agony  of  delight.  As 
Guy  struggled  up  and  rubbed  the  mud  from  his 
eyes,  he  became  aware  that  lie  was  an  object  of  ridi 
cule.  Making  a  rush  at  Philip,  the  two  boys  closed, 
and  this  time  both  rolled  into  the  water,  Guy  under 
most  ;  while  a  patriarchal  bull-frog  sat  gravely  on 
an  old  tomato-can,  and  enjoyed  the  dissensions  of 
his  whilom  oppressors. 

How  long  this  duel  would  have  lasted  it  is  impos 
sible  to  say,  had  not  Annie  Bonnymort  been  a  horri 
fied  spectator  of  the  scene  ;  but,  by  her  mediations, 
peace  was  restored,  and  the  sorry  train  returned  to 
the  house,  Philip  defiant,  Guy  abashed,  and  Annie 
crying  bitterly  at  the  end  of  the  procession.  Mrs. 
Symonds  received  them  with  horror  and  opprobrium  ; 
and  reproaching  audibly  "  that  rude  country  boy," 
began  coddling  Philip,  to  the  latter's  intense  disgust. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  consigned  to  the  upper  regions 
in  charge  of  a  stout  serving-maid  ;  and  Guy,  receiv 
ing  an  intimation  that  that  other  boy  had  better  go 
home  and  change  his  clothes,  found  himself  upon 
the  dusty  road  with  a  burning  sensation  of  misbe 
havior  and  disgrace. 

And  so  ended  our  hero's  first  appearance  in  so 
ciety. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  L'amour  propre,  c'est  la  plus  grande  de  nos  folics." — LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

IT  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Guyon  had  a 
decided  feeling  of  hate  ;  for  his  self-respect 
would  not  suffer  him  to  hate  the  other  boys  of  his 
acquaintance  for  disliking  him  without  cause.  It 
was  not  that  Symonds  had  led  him  to  jump  and 
tumble  in  the  water,  had  rolled  him  in  the  mud  ;  but 
that  through  him  he  had  been  snubbed  and  dispar 
aged  before  Annie.  And  the  next  morning  when  he 
hurried  across  the  fields  to  her  house,  rather  late,  and 
found  that  she  had  left  for  school  with  Philip,  he 
hated  him  more  than  before.  Hastening  his  steps, 
he  stalked  silently  by  them  on  the  way  and  took  his 
seat  in  the  school-room  without  speaking  to  either. 
At  "recess,"  he  met  Annie's  invitation  to  come  and 
play  with  the  remark  that  "  she  might  go  and  play 
with  Philip — he  had  sums  to  do."  And  wilfully 
bending  over  his  desk,  as  she  turned  away,  he  did 
not  see  the  look  of  sorrow  and  wonder  which  came 
into  her  soft  eyes. 

"  Ho,  ho,  Guy  !  I  wouldn't  get  mad  about  nothin'," 
cried  Philip,  as  he  went  by. 

"  I  am  not  mad,"  replied  Guy,  with  more  dignity 
than  truth.  But  Philip  had  vanished,  leap-frogging 


46  GUERNDALE. 

the  row  of  desks  as  he  went,  to  the  admiration  of 
the  crowd  of  boys  about  him.  And  so  for  several 
days  he  stood  upon  his  dignity,  satisfied  that  his 
conduct  was  very  right  and  noble,  though  he  could 
not  have  told  himself  what  cause  he  had  to  be  of 
fended. 

Now  Mandy  Shed  had  never  quite  got  over  her 
pique  at  Guy's  injury  to  her  spurned  beauty.  Not 
that  she  particularly  cared  about  him,  but  she  did 
care  about  the  evident  preference  of  any  one  for 
Annie  Bonnymort.  And  thus  it  happened  that  Uriel 
Sprowl  came  up  one  morning  and  found  Mandy  and 
our  hero  in  close  conversation.  The  interview  was 
evidently  of  her  seeking  ;  but  all  the  more  fired  with 
jealousy  was  the  noble  soul  of  Uriel  Sprowl. 

"  Hallo,  Mandy!  what  are  you  talking  to  him 
for?" 

"  I'll  talk  just  to  who  I  like — just !  You  haven't 
any  say  about  it,  anyhow." 

"  Perhaps  I  ain't ;  but  if  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't 
talk  to  a  thief  like  him." 

"  He  isn't  a  thief  !  "  cried  Mandy,  indignant. 

"  Yes,  he  is — or  his  father  was  !  Oh,  I  know  all 
about  it  I  Sol  Bung  told  me." 

"  Yes,  and  he  murdered  a  man,  too,  and  got  a  big 
diamond  for  doing  it.  Sol  Bung  told  me,  too.  And 
that's  the  reason  he  lives  off  all  alone  by  himself, 
and  don't  talk  to  nobody — /  know  !  "  This  from 
Ned  Dench,  who  had  come  up  after  Sprowl,  eager 
to  express  his  own  disapproval  of  the  boy  whom  no 
one  knew. 

"  It's  not  true,"  said  Guy,  pale,  but  quietly. 


GUERNDALE.  47 

"  Well,  if  't  warn't  your  pa,  it  was  your  grandpa, 
anyhow,  and  it's  all  the  same  thing." 

"You  lie." 

"  Pretty  poor  lot,  all  of  yer,  I  guess,"  retorted 
Sprowl  ;  "and,  if  it  comes  to  lyin',  yer  lie  back." 

How  the  matter  would  otherwise  have  been  de 
cided  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  for  Guy  resorted 
promptly  to  primitive,  but  honest  Saxon,  methods 
of  procedure  by  waging  his  battle  then  and  there. 
Sprowl  found  himself  lying  upon  the  ground,  look 
ing  up  at  the  blue  sky,  with  a  feeling  as  if  most  of 
his  teeth  had  been  driven  in. 

Upon  this,  Ned  Dench  also  rushed  for  Guy ;  sev 
eral  other  boys  joined  him  ;  and  Sprowl  picked  his 
own  self  up  and  hurled  it  at  our  hero  with  all  the 
fury  of  revenge.  Nevertheless,  Guy  backed  calmly 
up  against  a  stone  wall,  and  was  preparing  to  take  it 
out  in  fighting,  when  there  was  a  wild  rush  of  toss 
ing  fair  hair  and  arms  and  limbs  in  the  midst  of  his 
assailants,  and  he  suddenly  found  himself  surrounded 
by  the  prostrate  forms  of  his  enemies.  In  the  mid 
dle  stood  Philip  Symonds,  his  gray  eyes  fixed  and 
blazing  with  excitement. 

"  That's  like  you,  darned  mean  sneaks  !  Three  or 
four  of  you  to  pitch  into  one  man  at  once  !  Come 
away  Guy,  we'll  give  them  some  more  when  they 
want  it  !  "  And,  linking  his  arm  in  Guy's,  he  led 
him  away,  too  much  surprised  and  overcome  to 
make  remonstrance.  The  allies  sat  upon  the  ground 
and  stared  ruefully  at  one  another.  Mandy  Shed 
emerged  from  behind  a  tree,  and  looked  at  them  si 
lently,  her  black  eyes  flashing  with  delight.  But  no 


48  GUERNDALE. 

one  spoke,  save  Ned  Bench,  who  drawled  out  with 
gravity,  as  he  rubbed  his  bruised  elbows  alternately 
with  the  palm  of  each  hand, 

"  "VVa'al,  fur  fireworks  !  " 

Thereby  evincing  the  philosophy  and  good  nature 
of  the  New  England  countryman. 

As  the  three  other  children  were  walking  home, 
Guy  turned  and  said,  with  a  low  voice,  and  in  a 
manner  quaint  and  constrained  :  "  Mr.  Symonds,  I 
was  wrong  in  being  angry  Avith  you  this  morning. 
And  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  your  help.  I  shall 
not  forget  it.  And,  Annie,  I  wish  you  to  hear  me 
say  so." 

Philip  opened  his  eyes  somewhat,  but  said  :  "  Why, 
Guy,  that's  all  right — of  course  I  wouldn't  let  those 
fellows  go  for  you  all  at  once.  Only  I  wouldn't  git 
riled  just  'cause  I  tumbled  in  the  mud — 

"  I  was  wrong  "  interrupted  Guy,  hastily,  with  a 
slight  flush.  "  I  have  said  so." 

Annie  pressed  his  hand,  and  the  children  wralked 
along  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  In  quella  parte  del  libro  della  mia  meraoria,  dinanzi  alia  quale  poco  si  potrebbe 
leggerc,  si  trova  u,ia  rubrica,  la  quale  dice  : — Incij>it  Vita  Nova." — DANTE. 

FROM  the  famous  day  of  the  fight,  the  three 
children  became  fast  friends,  and  Philip,  in 
particular,  grew  to  be  a  very  idol  for  Guy.  No  one 
could  do  anything  so  well  as  Philip,  no  one  was  so 
true,  so  plucky,  and  so  strong.  Annie,  for  the 
future,  held  but  a  second  place  in  his  mind,  though 
they  saw  almost  as  much  of  one  another  as  ever,  for 
Philip  soon  made  friends  and  admirers  of  all  the 
boys  of  the  neighborhood.  While  he  was  off  with 
them  as  leader  in  some  boyish  diversion,  Guy,  who 
still  shrank  from  any  one  but  Philip,  would  be  ramb 
ling  about  alone  or  with  Annie.  But  he  took  more 
pride  in  the  prominence  and  prowess  of  his  friend 
than  if  it  were  his  own. 

Perhaps,  the  boy  brooded  more  than  ever.  When 
ever  he  was  alone  the  memory  would  recur,  morbid 
and  persistent,  of  what  Sprowl  had  said.  What  had 
he  meant  by  it  ?  He  had  always  felt  that  other  chil 
dren  shunned  and  avoided  him.  It  was,  then,  because 
there  was  some  disgrace  connected  with  him  and 
his  family?  No,  that  could  not  be  true,  it  must  be 
only  because  they  did  not  like  him.  At  all  events, 
3 


50  GUERNDALE. 

Solomon  Bung  was  the  man  who  had  told  the  story, 
and  of  Solomon  Bung  he  would  have  an  explanation. 

But  old  Sol  was  not  an  easy  man  to  find,  unless 
you  lay  in  the  grass  under  a  meadow-willow,  some 
fine  summer's  day,  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  waited 
for  him. 

One  night  when  the  crickets  and  tree-toads  were 
still,  and  the  gray  meadow-mist  rose  thicker  than 
ever  beneath  the  first  breath  of  autumn,  as  Guyon 
was  passing  through  the  marsh-land  near  Weedy 
Pond,  he  saw  the  well-known  motionless  figure  of 
Solomon  Bung.  He  was  seated  on  a  decayed  stump 
by  the  margin  of  the  water  ;  the  cork  of  his  fishing 
line  bobbed  merrily  among  the  lily-pads,  and  the 
smoke  of  his  briar-wood  pipe  curled  gently  up  about 
his  weather-beaten  face.  Old  Sol  had  knocked 
about  the  world  in  his  youth  enough  to  enjoy  the 
dear  delight  of  doing  nothing,  now  he  was  sixty. 
Much  as  Guy  wished  to  speak  to  him,  he  was  too 
diffident,  and  he  probably  would  have  passed  by  in 
silence,  had  not  Sol,  with  an  encouraging  "wa'al, 
sonny  ?  "  invited  conversation. 

"Do  you  get  many  fish  ?"  began  Guy,  with  some 
trepidation,  for  he  felt  the  honor  of  a  talk  with  so 
famous  a  personage. 

"Wai,  no,  can't  say  as  the  fish  be  as  plenty  as  they 
used.  'T  ain't  so  much  for  the  pout  'n'  suckers  I 
come.  It's  sorter  quiet  out  here  by  the  pond  o' 
nights,  'n'  a  man  gets  away  from  the  everlastin' 
cackle  o' the  wimmin-folks. " 

"  It  is  nice  !  "  assented  Guy,  eagerly.  "  I  like  to 
be  alone,  too." 


GUERNDALE.  5 1 

"Wai,  there's  loneliness  an'  loneliness.  'T  ain't 
good  for  a  little  shaver  like  you  to  see  too  much  of 
hisself." 

"  I  don't  like  the  boys  at  school." 

"  No,  an'  'taint  nateral  you  should.  Their  ways 
ain't  like  your  folks'  ways,  ever  since — ever  since 
the  country  was  settled.  But  what's  this  folks  say 
about  a  rumpus  you  an'  that  'ere  Sprowl  boy  had  the 
other  day  ?  Folks  do  say  as  how  you  'n'  he  had  a 
qua'l." 

"  He  said  my  grandfather  was  a  murderer  and — 
and  a  thief ;  and  I  told  him  he  lied.  He  said  you 
told  him  so  ;  and  oh,  do  tell  me — you  know  it  can't 
be  true —  And  poor  Guy  burst  into  a  passionate 

fit  of  crying.  Old  Sol  lay  down  his  fishing-rod  and 
his  pipe  and  his  bait-box  upon  the  long  meadow- 
grass,  and  took  the  boy  tenderly  in  his  arms,  while 
his  leathery  old  face  lengthened  into  such  an  expres 
sion  of  pity  as  a  large  quid  of  tobacco  stuck  in  one 
cheek  would  allow. 

"  Why,  sonny — why,  Guyon  boy,  don't  cry  so,  now 
don't  !  Why,  my  good  little  boy,  what  do  you  care 
what  that  'ere  darned  Sprowl  or  any  other  cuss  said? 
'n'  what  difference  does  it  all  make,  so  long  as  you 
did  n't  do  it  ?  'T  warn't  you  as  killed  old  Simmons, 
anyhow." 

"  I  don't  care  what  Ury  Sprowl  said,"  struggled 
out  Guy  between  his  sobs.  "  But  he  said  you  told 
him  so,  and,  if  it  wasn't  true,  you  had  no  right  to." 

"  Wai,  my  boy,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  Only 
don't  cry — there's  a  good  boy  !  You  see,  the  fact  is, 
it's  all  true,  an'  it  ain't.  An'  it  happened  so  long 


52  GUERNDALE. 

ago  that  it  don't  make  no  difference  to  you,  anyhow 
— now,  does  it  ?  Why,  I  know  fellers  whose  fathers 
made  their  money  in  real  downright  cheatin' — /  call 
it  so — an'  they  hold  their  heads  now  jest  as  high  as 
the  next  man,  an'  a  heap  higher  than  you  nor  me. 
Why,  there's  old  Simmons — Symonds  he  calls  him 
self — they  do  say  as  how,  when  he  fust  went  into  old 
Nat  Langdon's  counting-room,  he  stole  hand  and 
fist  from  the  uneddycated  heathens  and  Catholics, 
and  such  like  poor  devils  !  " 

"  Is  that  Philip's  father  ?  For  he  is  my  best 
friend,  and  his  father  is  a  gentleman  in  Boston,  and 
I  know  he  would  not  do  anything  wrong."  Guy 
looked  up  and  spoke  earnestly  through  his  tears. 

"  Wai,  sonny,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  How 
ever,  as  I  was  goin'  to  say,  the  fact  of  the  matter 
was,  you  see,  that  your  grandfather's  grandfather — 
Sir  Guyon,  as  old  folks  used  to  call  him  in  them  'ere 
effete  times — wTas  a  mighty  queer  sort  o'  man.  He 
was  a  graspin'  old  cuss,  and  his  great  idee  was  to 
scrape  up  enough  of  the  shiners  to  take  him  back  to 
England,  where  he  could  live  with  the  kings  and 
princes  of  them  old  monarchies.  Now,  you  'n'  I 
ain't  such  darned  fools  as  to  go  and  suppose  as  how 
there's  gold,  or  anything  else  but  gravel  an'  pyrites, 
in  these  old  hills.  New  England  hills  is  pretty  poor 
plowin'.  But  in  them  ancient  times  folks  didn't 
know  no  better.  So  when  old  Godfrey  Guerndale 
died — the  old  gentleman  that  bought  all  the  country 
round  here — his  son,  bad  Sir  Guyon,  he  came  back 
an'  struck  up  a  great  friendship  with  a  chap  named 
Phil  Simmons,  that  was  one  o'  the  forefathers  of 


GUERNDALE.  53 

your  friend  we  was  just  speakin'  of,  or  akin  to  him, 
anyhow.  He  was  a  good-for-nothin'  sort  o'  cuss  that 
used  to  be  a-gipseyin'  round  mostly,  summat  like 
me,  only  he  was  an  ugly  devil  an'  graspin'.  Any 
how,  the  long  and  short  of  it  was,  they  had  an  old 
furnace  up  here  in  the  hills  an'  used  to  roar  away  at 
it  o'  nights  like  mad,  an'  on  Saturday  nights,  too. 
Folks  tell  as  how  they  really  did  find  a  diamond,  or 
a  carbuncle,  or  suthin'  of  the  kind  ;  anyhow,  they 
got  into  a  muss,  an'  your  gret-gran'father,  he  knocked 
young  Simmons  on  the  head,  dead  as  Chelsea,  sure 
enough.  An'  he  would  not  let  himself  be  taken 
alive  ;  so  he  was  shot  down  like  a  woodchuck,  and 
the  rights  of  the  story  never  got  rightly  known. 
Some  say  as  how  he  shot  himself.  I  don't  guess 
but  what  your  gran'father  warn't  so  much  to  blame 
as  some  other  folks  ;  quite  likely  Simmons  had  the 
first  lick  in  the  row  an'  got  lammed,  and  sarved  him 
right ;  but  it  never  came  out.  And  your  folks 
hain't,  perhaps,  been  in  much  favor  since ;  an'  that's 
nateral.  People  will  talk,  and  then  they've  had  a 
way  o'  keepin'  off  to  themselves  a  good  deal,  and  that 
ain't  helped  'em.  Folks  thought  as  how  they  might 
be  a  little  stuck-up.  But  some  say  that  old  John 
Simmons,  he  that  wuz  the  father  of  the  one  that  was 
killed,  he  stuck  by  your  gret-gran'father,  'n'  was 
with  him  before  he  was  killed  'n'  tried  to  get  him  off 
out  o'  the  country  ;  an'  old  Guerndale  he  gave  Sim 
mons  the  stun'  to  keep  for  his  boy,  your  gret-gran' 
father.  Ah,  well,"  added  Sol,  relapsing  into  silence 
and  seeking  for  his  pipe,  "  't  ain't  no  use  ! " 

Sol  used  to  tell  afterward  how  Guy's  face  had  be« 


54  GUERNDALE. 

come  "  sorter  white  an'  set-like  "  during  his  narrative. 
However  that  was,  the  boy  had  stopped  crying  and 
remained  silent  for  some  minutes  afterward,  a  pause 
which  enabled  Solomon  Bung  to  eliminate  from  their 
muddy  element  several  horn-pout,  and  deposit  them 
gasping  in  his  basket. 

"And  what  became  of  the  diamond?"  asked  the 
boy,  finally. 

"Wai,  folks  used  to  say  as  how  your  family  kep' 
it.  People  don't  think  much  o'  them  sort  o'  things 
now.  But  Guyon,  boy" — and  Sol  lowered  his  voice 
— "they  do  say  it  was  foretold  that  your  people 
never  would  be  happy  or  get  like  other  folks  until 
they  gave  away,  or  lost,  or  somehow  got  shot  o'  that 
'ere  precious  stun  !  There  was  suthin'  kind  o'  queer 
about  the  way  it  came  to  ye,  an'  it  can't  bring  no 
luck  !  " 

The  old  fisherman  began  gathering  up  his  basket 
and  preparing  to  go.  Guy  still  sat  on  the  grass, 
looking  into  the  black  water. 

"Ain't  you  comin'?"  said  Sol.  "Most  time  for 
you  to  be  a-bed." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  boy.  "  Besides,  I  go  home  the 
other  way." 

Solomon  Bung,  after  urging  him  some  time  in 
vain,  slowly  plodded  across  the  spongy  meadow  to 
the  edge  of  the  low  wood.  When  he  reached  there 
he  turned  and  looked  for  Guy.  The  boy  was  still 
sitting  beside  the  dead  tree-trunk,  quite  still,  his 
hands  clasped  upon  his  knees.  The  white  mists 
from  the  pond  rose  up  so  dense  about  him  as  almost 
to  veil  his  form,  dimly  outlined  against  the  sombre 


GUERNDALE.  55 

mere.  To  the  west  the  sunset  faded  in  pale  yellow 
streaks,  running  in  long  bars  across  the  sky,  behind 
the  high  black  pines.  There  was  no  noise  but  the 
hoarse  croak  of  the  frogs  and  the  cry  of  a  hidden 
water-fowl. 

"  Can't  exactly  make  that  boy  out,"  said  old  Sol, 
as,  after  several  unanswered  calls,  he  turned  and 
took  his  way  through  the  wood-path.  "  Seems  to 
care  a  lot  about  what  folks  think  of  him  ;  an'  yet  he 
does  pretty  much  as  he  likes,  an'  is  powerful  sot  in 
his  ways." 


CHAPTER   X. 

,     .     .     "You  hold  our 'scutcheon  up, 
Austin,  no  blot  on  it !     You  see  how  blood 
Must  wash  one  blot  away ;  the  first  blot  came 
And  the  first  blood  came.    To  the  vain  world's  eye 
All's  gules  again — no  care  to  the  vain  world 
From  whence  the  red  was  drawn  !  " — ROBERT  BROWNING. 

"  A  ciascun  alma  presa  e  gentil  core. 
Salute  in  lor  signor  cioe  Amore  !  " — DANTE. 

GUY  never  knew  how  long  he  stayed  there,  sit 
ting  with  his  head  upon  his  breast,  his  dry 
eyes  peering  into  the  still  water.  He  was  almost  too 
unhappy  to  move  ;  he  sat  there  blindly  and  let  his 
sorrows  pass  over  him  like  a  flood.  What  matter  if 
he  never  moved  ?  Why  not  resign  himself?  What 
difference  did  it  make  ?  So  absorbed  was  he,  that 
the  first  he  knew  of  any  one's  approach  was  the  touch 
of  a  little,  soft,  warm  hand.  There  was  poor  little 
Annie,  breathless  and  trembling,  looking  at  him 
with  anxious  eyes. 

"Why,  Guidie,  where  have  you  been?  Why  do 
you  stay  away  so  late  ?  I  went  over  to  get  you  to 
come  to  tea  at  Cousin  Philip's,  and  they  did  not 
know  where  you  were.  But  your  mamma  said  she 
thought  you  had  gone  down  to  the  pond.  So  I  ran 
down  here  ;  and  oh  !  Guy,  I  was  so  frightened  !  It 


GUERNDALE.  57 

was  so  late,  and  the  woods  were  so  dark,  and — but, 
what  is  the  matter,  Guy  dear  ? " 

For  suddenly  great  drops  of  tears  rolled  down  the 
boy's  face  ;  and  she  had  never  known  him  to  cry. 
But  he  made  no  sound,  until,  as  she  took  his  cold 
hand  in  her  warm  ones,  out  came  the  whole  con 
fused  story  of  his  trials  and  troubles  ;  distorted  and 
exaggerated,  as  children's  griefs  are,  but  withal  a 
keener  sense  of  injustice  than  is  left  to  callous 
minds  of  men.  But,  somehow,  when  Guy,  broken- 
voiced,  reached  the  end,  with  Annie's  tender  brown 
eyes  fixed  in  sympathy,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
cared  less  than  before.  After  all,  while  he  and  Annie 
were  walking  homeward  through  the  wood,  he  did 
not  care  so  much  what  Ury  Sprowl  and  Ned  Dench 
might  be  saying.  And  so  they  came  back  through 
the  shadows,  hand  in  hand  ;  and  Annie,  now  sob 
bing  herself,  begged  Guy  not  to  mind  it.  It  was 
only  the  foolishness  of  those  people  ;  and  they  were 
not  nice,  any  of  them.  Besides,  why  should  he 
mind  if  what  they  said  was  untrue  ?  Her  father 
would  not  think  so,  she  knew. 

But  Guy  suddenly  felt  a  longing  for  a  world 
where  people  were  all  like  her  father,  and  did  not 
act  or  think  in  a  way  he  felt  was  not — not  nice.  He 
not  only  felt  discontented  with  Mandy  Shed  and 
Dench  and  Sprowl  and  the  other  children  about 
Dale,  but  with  the  place  itself  and  home  and  nar 
rowness.  Guy  was  not  old  enough  to  even  imagine 
malice  ;  he  could  not  understand  that  people  should 
do  ill  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  ill-doing.  He 
wished  to  go  back  with  the  Bonnymorts,  when  they 


58  GUERNDALE. 

returned  to  the  city,  that  October.  He  wished  to  go 
anywhere. 

Tea  at  Mrs.  Symonds'  was  a  somewhat  formidable 
affair  ;  but  he  heeded  it  little,  to-night  ;  still  less, 
Philip's  many  inquiries  as  to  why  he  had  been  so 
long  fishing  and  how  many  pout  he  had  caught. 
He  became  more  interested  when  he  heard  Philip 
talking  about  going  off  next  wTeek  to  St.  Mark's,  in 
Rockshire,  for  his  first  term  at  school.  He  was  go 
ing  to  room  with  Leffy  Lane,  he  said  ;  but  he  did  not 
want  to.  Leffy  was  a  muff,  and — hallo  !  why  would 
not  Guy  go  with  him  ? 

Guy  looked  at  Annie,  across  the  table. 

"I  should  like  to,  ever  so  much,"  he  said;  then, 
seeing  Mrs.  Symonds'  look,  "  if  Mrs.  Symonds  is 
willing,  I  will." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  perfectly  splendid — as  girls 
say,"  cried  Philip,  adding  the  latter  clause  as  an 
apology  for  his  unmanly  enthusiasm.  "And  we  can 
come  to  Dale  here,  for  our  vacation,  instead  of  Bos 
ton  ;  and  we'll  take  our  double-runner,  and  Snap, 
and  a  lot  of  fishing-poles,  and " 

"Be  silent,  Philly,  don't  scream  so,  child,"  inter 
posed  the  dominant  of  Mrs.  Symonds'  metallic  voice. 
But,  after  tea,  Mr.  Bonnymort  and  she  had  a  long 
conversation,  one  side  of  which  was  very  much  to 
his  credit,  so  far  as  Guy  overheard,  and  the  other  not 
at  all.  Finally,  Mr.  Bonnymort  called  Guy  to  him, 
and  asked  if  he  had  spoken  to  his  mother  about  this. 

Guy  said  no  ;  but  that  he  knew  she  would  let  him. 
And,  truly  enough,  the  sad-eyed  widow  would  as 
soon  have  thought  of  opposing  his  father  in  the 


GUERNDALE.  59 

flesh  as  of  offering  let  or  hindrance  to  anything 
Guy  willed. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Bonnymort.  "Well,  Mrs.  Sy- 
monds  has  no  objection  to  your  going  with  her  son  ; 
only,  of  course,  you  must  get  your  mother's  permis 
sion." 

This  she  gave,  with  many  tears  and  much  imvard 
repining.  She  did  not  say  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  have  him  leave  her  ;  she  seemed  afraid  to  let  him 
go.  She  too  had  caught  her  husband's  curious, 
shrinking  dread  of  the  world.  She  pleaded  for  delay, 
that  he  was  too  young,  that  he  wras  not  twelve. 

"  My  grandfather  was  only  thirteen  when  he  went 
to  the  war,"  said  Guy. 

"Yes,  and  he  took  the  wrong  side,"  sighed  his 
mother. 

"No,  Mamma,"  said  Guy,  "he  was  loyal.  I  know 
the  Tories  were  wrong  ;  at  least,  Miss  Laighton  says 
so.  But  they  had  to  be  loyal."  At  which  Mrs. 
Guerndale  smiled  and  k'issed  him,  and  said  that  only 
women  reasoned  so,  now-a-days. 

So  Guy  was  to  go  to  school  and  learn  to  meet  the 
world  and  conquer  it.  Philip  was  much  busied 
about  his  pets  and  traps  and  implements  of  sport ; 
but  Guy  and  Annie  passed  the  last  week  in  making 
the  tour  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  then  late  au 
tumn  ;  the  last  of  the  cardinal  flowers  found  by  Guy 
flamed  in  Annie's  hair  ;  but  the  wood  was  ablaze 
with  golden  rod,  and  the  beautiful  clematis  vine  and 
the  pale  purple  aster.  The  children  spent  one  day 
about  the  mushy  and  somewhat  ineffective  shores  of 
Weedy  Pond  ;  where  Solomon  Bung  watched  them 


6O  GUERNDALE. 

silently,  with  his  kind  old  face,  lest  they  should  get 
into  danger.  Then  they  followed  up  the  brook 
to  the  little  pool  where  Guy  had  first  tumbled  into 
Annie's  acquaintance.  Then  over  the  brow  of  the 
hills  beyond,  where  great  lazy  Monadnock  loomed 
in  the  crisp  autumn  air  like  a  dream,  and  brought  a 
like  look  into  the  boy's  eyes.  They  often  visited  the 
old  forge  or  furnace  on  the  shady  side  of  the  valley. 
One  day  they  were  sitting  there  looking  over  at  the 
brown  sunlight,  as  it  fell  on  the  opposite  slope  of 
wood  and  fern.  There  was  a  haze  and  a  hush  in 
the  day,  falling  like  a  shadow  of  thought  on  happi 
ness  ;  but  above  the  sky  was  purple,  and  shimmer 
ing  down  came  the  long  silver  skeins  that  the  mother 
Mary  weaves  in  heaven,  as  the  old  Provencal  peas 
ants  say:  "Weaving  the  birth-robes  for  them  that 
are  just  born,  being  dead." 

Guy  had  been  entertaining  Annie  with  a  long  vision 
of  his  future.  How,  if  a  war  broke  out,  as  men  said 
might  be,  he  would  go  and  win  such  honors  that  he 
might  come  back  and  wear  the  fatal  old  diamond  on 
the  hilt  of  his  sword  if  he  liked,  and  no  man  should 
say  him  nay.  And,  if  he  died,  he  would  leave  fair 
fame  behind  him  and  a  kind  memory  for  his  sons. 
Annie,  somewhat  grieved  at  her  own  absence  from 
all  these  brilliant  dreams,  hinted  that  she  feared  he 
would  forget  her,  when  all  these  fine  things  came  to 
pass.  And  Guy  said  that  he  never  would. 

The  next  day,  the  morning  train  took  the  boys  off 
for  Discord.  But  not  before  Guy  had  taken  Edward 
Dench  and  Uriel  Sprowl,  Jr.,  successively  behind 
Uriel  Sprowl's  barn,  and  then  and  there  given  each 


GUERNDALE.  6l 

in  turn,  in  a  fair  field,  what  Sol  Bung  called  "  an  all- 
fired  good  lickin'.  He  hez  the  old  Guern'l  spunk — 
no  doubt  on  't — an'  he'll  try  an'  make  a  start." 

"So  he  be  gone  up  to  Discut,  be  he?"  said  old 
Sol  to  me.  "  Wai,  wal.  They  do  give  youngsters  a 
powerful  deal  of  schooling  now-a-days." 

Sol  turned  his  quid  meditatively  for  several  min 
utes.  "  Mebbe,  it's  a  good  thing"  he  added.  "  Mebbe, 
now,  ef  I — 

But  it  was  never  known  what  things  Sol  thought 
he  might  have  accomplished  with  educational  advan 
tages.  The  high,  shallow  accents  of  Sol's  helpmeet 
were  heard  at  this  moment,  in  the  direction  of  the 
back-yard,  but  approaching  the  speaker,  the  vol 
ume  of  their  acerbity  increasing  inversely  as  the 
square  of  the  distance.  Sol  hitched  his  trowsers. 

"Wal,  wal — 't  ain't  no  use." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  he  gathered  up  his  rod  and  lines 
and  moved  off  rapidly  and  smoothly  in  the  direction 
of  Weedy  Pond. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  In  that  I  live,  I  love  ;  because  I  love, 
I  live  :  whate'er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other  ;  and  whene'er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the  one 
There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other." — TENNYSON. 

UERNDALE  never  liked  me  at  Discord,  and 
V_T  w#  saw  very  little  of  one  another.  Doubtless, 
I  should  then  have  put  it  that  I  did  not  like  him, 
for  I  thought  he  was  a  muff  and  a  fool,  and  prided 
myself  on  never  changing  my  opinions.  I  do  not 
know  what  he  thought  of  me,  but  he  never  liked 
me.  He  was  not  a  boy  of  much  promise  at  games  ; 
being,  indeed,  very  young,  besides  weak  and  slender. 
Symonds,  who  was  one  of  the  jolliest  and  pluckiest 
little  cubs  we  had  in  the  school,  was  a  great  friend 
of  his,  but  even  Phil,  as  I  saw,  felt  sometimes  ashamed 
of  Guerndale's  moodiness  and  want  of  spirit.  We 
used  to  wonder  what  made  them  such  close  friends  ; 
but,  perhaps,  it  wras  natural,  for  Guerndale  almost 
worshipped  Philip.  There  was  little  enough  the 
poor  little  devil  could  do  for  a  man  like  Symonds, 
one  of  the  most  popular  fellows  in  the  school  ;  but 


GUERNDALE.  63 

he  stuck  to  him  like  a  leech.  I  do  not  think  Guern- 
dale  really  was  such  a  fool  as  he  looked ;  indeed, 
once  in  a  while  he  would  seem  to  try  and  be  more 
like  other  fellows.  I  remember  one  day  we  were 
sitting  around  the  south  door,  talking  over  a  four 
teen-mile  run  of  hare  and  hounds  the  day  before. 
Guerndale  really  had  done  remarkably  well  as  a  hare, 
for  he  had  a  surprising  knack  of  finding  his  way  in 
the  woods.  Lane  spoke  of  it,  and  Tom  Brattle  said 
Guerndale  could  do  well  enough  when  it  came  to 
running  away.  This  was,  perhaps,  rather  a  mean 
thing  to  say,  and  Philip  flushed  up  a  little. 

"I  do  wish  Guy,  you  wouldn't  be  such  a  flat,"  said 
he.  "Why,  there's  scarcely  a  fellow  now  that  can't 
beat  you  at  anything." 

"  Let  the  little  muff  alone  and  come  out  ^for  foot 
ball,"  I  cried.  "  You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a 
sow's  ear."  This  sally  of  mine  made  quite  a  success, 
which  pleased  me  hugely,  for  I  was  not  usually  very 
ready  with  my  tongue.  Guerndale  turned  quite 
white,  but  said  nothing,  and  afterward  joined  us  in 
the  field — rather  to  my  surprise,  for  he  usually  wan 
dered  off  alone  in  play-hours.  Now  I  was  one  of 
the  biggest  and  strongest  fellows  in  the  school,  and 
Phil  Symonds,  though  younger,  was  a  beautiful 
rusher.  I  remember  well  how  he  and  I  chose  up — 
for  it  was  a  scrub-game— and  he,  rather  reluctantly, 
took  Guerndale  as  his  last  man. 

"What  am  I  to  do  ?"  asked  he. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Phil  answered.  "You  might 
as  well  help  tend  goal,  I  suppose.  You  can't  do  any 
thing  else." 


64  GUERNDALE. 

Guy  silently  took  his  place,  and  I  led  off.  The 
game  was  pretty  close  that  day,  and  after  an  hour 
we  only  had  two  touch-downs.  Then  I  got  the  ball 
out  bounds,  and  made  a  far  throw  to  Lane,  who 
caught  it  and  by  a  quick  side  run  got  well  behind 
their  rushers  ;  I,  of  course,  ran  in  from  out  bounds  a 
little  ahead  of  the  line,  keeping  well  along  with 
Lane,  and  when  Phil  caught  him,  as  I  expected,  he 
threw  the  ball  to  me.  I  took  it  neat,  and  tucking 
the  leather  under  my  arm  started,  all  Phil's  side  af 
ter  me.  But  I  was  well  ahead,  with  only  Guerndale 
between  me  and  their  goal.  ''You're  off  side,"  he 
sang  out  ;  but  I  wTas  mad  at  his  cheek,  and  told  him 
to  "  shut  up  "  and  that  he  was  a  "  darned  little  fool," 
or  something  of  the  sort.  Just  then  I  stumbled  over 
a  hillock  and  dropped  the  ball  forward.  Madder 
than  ever,  I  rushed  on  after  it,  now  near  enough  to 
the  goal  to  try  a  running  kick.  Guy  must  have 
seen  my  intention  ;  but  none  the  less  he  threw  his 
little  corpus  upon  the  ball  head-foremost,  just  as  my 
heavy  boot  struck  square,  luckily,  on  his  shoulder 
only,  and  I  went  over  like  a  ninepin  amid  a  confused 
noise  of  cheering  and  laughter  ;  while  Guerndale 
sang  out  "  have  it  down  ! "  Down  he  had  it,  sure 
enough,  and  himself  on  top  of  it,  and  fainted  away 
at  that.  And  then  I  was  too  blown  to  do  much,  and 
a  straight  winder  of  Phil's  ended  in  a  goal  for  them. 

I  speak  of  this  incident,  because  it  is  about  the 
only  thing  I  remember  of  Guy  at  St.  Mark's.  Curi 
ously  enough,  I  find  I  have  described  it  quite  in  my 
old  self  as  a  boy.  I  can  see,  as  I  write,  what  I  then 
thought  and  believed,  what  I  was,  what  sort  of  a 


GUERNDALE.  65 

world  I  centred,  as  if  I  were  back  there  again.  But 
my  language  of  those  times  will  not  carry  what  I 
have  to  say  now.  So  the  reader  will  please  forget 
me,  as  I  shall  forget  myself. 

All  this  was  some  years  before  we  went  to  college, 
and  by  that  time  Guy  was  quite  changed  by  his  long 
life  in  a  large  school.  He  was  now  a  wiry,  active 
fellow,  somewhat  serious  and  reserved,  but  far  from 
morose.  Indeed,  he  was  most  enthusiastic  when 
roused  by  anything  he  liked  or  believed  in.  The 
summer  we  were  sub-freshmen,  Philip,  Lane,  Guern- 
dale,  and  I  walked  through  the  White  Mountains, 
and  I  saw  more  of  him.  He  had  deep  brown  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  drink  in  light  without  returning  it, 
except  now  and  then  a  reflection  of  the  sky,  and  a 
deep,  bass  voice,  and  when  alone  he  was  nearly  al 
ways  singing.  He  had  two  great  beliefs,  ideas,  ob 
jects  which  quite  surprised  me  when  I  first  discov 
ered  them.  One  was  his  intense  belief  in  the 
earnestness  of  life  ;  it  was  so  earnest  that  it  almost 
seemed  forced  or  artificial,  or  as  if  it  depended  on 
some  other  feeling.  He  took  things  and  thoughts 
so  deeply  into  his  consciousness  that  I  believe  any 
thing  wrong  or  unhappy  in  them  caused  him  acute 
pain,  like  a  bruise  or  a  broken  bone.  Another  was 
his  ideal  way  of  thinking,  and  he  seemed  to  think 
the  world  really  corresponded  to  it.  He  idealized 
everything — his  friends,  his  favorite  public  men  of 
the  time,  his  favorite  authors,  and  particularly  men's 
motives.  He  really  seemed  to  think  that  all  men 
acted  like  the  knights  in  the  Faery  Queen,  his  favor 
ite  poem.  I  used  to  envy  him  his  enthusiasm,  his 


66  GUERNDALE. 

passion  of  admiration,  while  it  lasted,  and  would  pity 
him  somewhat  contemptuously  in  his  poignant  un- 
happiness  when  his  ideal  was  shattered,  as  would 
sometimes  happen  in  those  days.  All  women  are 
hero-worshippers,  and  he  was  very  much  like  a  wo 
man,  or  rather  a  young  girl.  We  often  laughed  at 
him  for  this,  and  for  his  dreams. 

Still  he  had  great  energy  and  plenty  of  ambition 
for  active  life — for  coming  out  of  the  cloud,  as  he 
used  to  say,  and  living  in  the  open.  His  belief  in 
things  was  intense — I  mean,  in  men  and  thoughts, 
not  works  and  facts  ;  rather  in  the  future  than  the 
present.  And  added  to  this  was  his  belief  in  him 
self.  Guy  was  not  exactly  conceited,  but  I  believe 
he  thought  that  he  could  remove  most  external 
things  that  vexed  him,  as  a  surgeon  excides  a  tumor. 
In  the  middle  of  the  civil  war  he  had  sought  his 
mother's  permission  to  enlist,  which  was  refused,  as 
he  was  only  fifteen  ;  but  I  think  he  would  have  gone 
all  the  same  had  not  the  war  ended.  He  used  to 
glory  in  the  North  and  its  victories,  and  declaim 
eagerly  to  such  of  us  as  would  listen  to  him  about 
the  effect  of  a  war  undertaken  from  noble  motives  in 
purifying  and  perfecting  our  country. 

All  this  rather  bored  us,  I  think.  He  was  too 
high-strung  altogether  for  a  lot  of  jolly  fellows  on  a 
walking  trip.  In  conversation  he  shot  too  many  ar 
rows  in  the  air  to  be  amusing.  I  never  could  make 
out  what  the  devil  he  was  driving  at.  Still,  he  came 
as  a  friend  of  Phil's,  whom  we  all  liked. 

I  remember,  one  afternoon,  we  four  were  trudging 
along  the  bad  road  between  Jackson  and  the  Glen, 


GUERNDALE.  6/ 

when  a  little  phaeton  rattled  by,  carrying  a  pretty 
girl  with  a  pink  parasol.  A  young  man,  faultlessly 
dressed,  was  leaning  toward  her  to  whisper  some 
thing  in  her  ear,  with  an  air  of  matter-of-course 
about  him  that  we  all  felt  was  quite  beyond  us. 
Then  they  looked  at  us  and  laughed,  and  Lane  spoke 
up:  "Why,  that's  Norton  Randolph;  he's  going  in 
with  our  class."  We  all  of  us  raved  about  the  pretty 
girl  except  Guerndale,  who  persisted  in  comparing 
her  to  a  tulip  ;  but  when  we  went  to  Cambridge  in 
the  autumn,  and  Randolph  appeared  for  the  first 
time  in  our  midst,  it  was  with  a  certain  glamour  of 
pink  parasol.  He  had  that  delicious  manner  of  a 
man  of  the  world  fascinating  to  youth,  and  we  were 
all  prepared  to  be  influenced  by  him.  He  was 
dimly  reported  to  be  very  rich  and  to  have  travelled 
much  abroad  ;  moreover,  he  had  a  general  sort  of 
air  of  having  been  all  through  college  twenty  years 
before,  and  only  being  there  again  to  see  how  we 
managed  it. 

But  I  am  dropping  into  myself  and  my  impres 
sions  again  ;  so  here  goes  for  impersonality  and  a 
new  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Oh,  if  I  had  course  like  a  full  stream, 

If  life  were  as  the  field  of  chase  !     No,  no  ; 

The  life  of  instinct  has,  it  seems,  gone  by, 

And  will  not  be  forced  back.     And  to  live  now 

I  must  sluice  myself  into  canals. 

And  lose  all  force  in  ducts." — CLOUGH. 

IN  the  old  halls  of  Cambridge  there  was  nothing 
sufficiently  luxurious  to  suit  the  cultivated  tastes 
of  Mr.  Norton  Randolph.  Moreover,  he  said,  the 
college  halls  were  infested  with  proctors,  and  proc 
tors  wTere  a  race  of  very  impudent  fellows  who  would 
come  into  your  room  without  being  announced. 
We  paid  great  attention  to  what  Randolph  used  to 
say,  in  those  days.  It  was  not  only  his  great  age 
that  impressed  us — he  was  twenty-two — but  the  su 
perior  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  things  in  general 
and  the  world  in  particular. 

By  reason  of  his  aversion  to  proctors,  he  eschewed 
the  quadrangle,  and  occupied  the  floor  of  a  house  in 
the  town.  Thither  he  was  wont  to  call  a  few  chosen 
spirits  every  night ;  but  first  let  me  describe  his  sur 
roundings,  as  I  remember  them. 

He  occupied  a  study  and  a  bed-room.  On  the 
floor  of  the  latter  was  a  large  metal  bath-tub,  per 
fectly  flat  and  surrounded  by  an  ornamental  rim  of 


GUERNDALE.  69 

wrought  iron.  This  he  had  imported  from  England, 
a  Christian  tub,  as  he  said,  being  not  procurable  in 
America.  Besides  a  bath-tub,  it  was  a  trap  for  bur 
glars,  as  any  one  entering  the  room  carelessly  was  sure 
to  trip  over  it.  And  its  width  was  carefully  meas 
ured,  so  that  a  falling  proctor  would  just  reach  the 
opposite  iron  rim  with  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  For 
this  purpose,  it  was  frequently  borrowed  and  placed 
in  dark  entries  by  men  who  gave  wine-parties. 

This  machine  of  cleanliness  and  defence  was  fami 
liarly  spoken  of  among  Randolph's  friends  as  the 
Frog-pond.  Besides  it,  there  was  a  wardrobe,  a 
clothes-press,  a  dressing-table,  and  a  large  table  at 
the  head  of  the  bed.  On  this  you  might  usually  find 
a  reading-lamp,  a  box  of  cigarettes,  a  hookah,  the 
latest  number  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  Punch, 
Figaro,  the  Petit  Journal  pour  Rire,  and  the  Saturday 
Review;  a  volume  of  Montaigne  and  of  French 
memoirs  ;  a  prayer-book  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church,  a  siphon  of  seltzer,  and  a  bell.  On  the 
walls  was  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  armor,  from 
a  Japanese  spear  and  a  mediaeval  broadsword  down 
to  a  pair  of  Guerin's  best  fleurets,  and  a  triangular, 
beautifully  engraved  rapier.  The  floor  had  no  car 
pet,  but  was  covered  with  furs  and  fox-skins.  The 
window  was  always  opened,  even  on  the  coldest 
days. 

The  study  was  a  room  some  twenty  feet  square, 
the  floor  of  which  Mr.  Randolph  had  caused  to  be 
painted  of  a  bronze  green.  There  were  many  Per 
sian  rugs.  The  walls  were  lined  with  dwarf  book 
cases,  and  covered  with  old  engravings  and  modern 


/O  GUERNDALE. 

etchings  of  the  rarest  sort,  except  over  the  door, 
where  was  hung,  in  a  meretricious  gilded  frame,  a 
chromo  of  Washington,  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  Gen 
eral  Ulysses  S.  Grant,  with  the  legend  Pater — Salva- 
tor — Gustos.  Randolph  always  said  that  he  preserved 
this  work  of  art  as  epitomizing  the  gradual  deterior 
ation  of  his  country.  The  book-cases  were  filled 
with  small  duodecimo  volumes  (for  he  used  to  say 
that  nothing  could  be  carried  in  the  head  which  was 
too  big  to  be  carried  in  the  pocket),  a  lot  of  Elzivir 
classics,  Greek  and  Latin  ;  all  the  older  Italian  and 
Spanish  poets,  and  a  smaller  number  of  modern 
works,  represented  by  Cervantes,  Calderon,  Rabelais, 
Montaigne,  Voltaire,  Swift,  Byron,  Goethe,  Heine, 
Schopenhauer,  Diderot,  and  de  Musset.  For  he 
used  to  say,  laughingly,  since  the  time  of  Cervantes 
and  Rabelais  it  has  been  impossible  to  take  the 
world  au  serieux,  and  his  library  was  chosen  accord 
ingly. 

But  the  centre-table  was  Mr.  Randolph's  especial 
pride.  He  maintained  that  a  gentleman's  centre- 
table  should  resemble  the  room  in  Tourer's  Jlfe/ancotia, 
and  his  own,  accordingly,  was  an  omnium  gatherum 
of  books,  works  of  art,  sporting  utensils,  cards, 
smokables,  notes,  letters,  beverages,  sketches,  pho 
tographs,  maps — everything  except  a  daily  paper  ; 
for  Randolph  preferred,  as  he  used  to  say,  to  view 
his  times  from  an  historico-critical  distance,  and  not 
through  the  shilling  spy-glass  of  an  illiterate  re 
porter.  When  he  wished  to  let  his  friends  know 
"what  things  propped  his  mind  these  dark  times," 
he  used  to  have  his  centre-table  photographed,  and 


GUERNDALE.  /I 

send  them  proofs.  For  he  never  wrote  letters,  on 
the  principle  that  he  never  had  any  thoughts  worth 
writing  down. 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,  Guerndale,  why  you  came 
to  College." 

The  speaker,  Randolph,  was  lying  lazily  on  a 
divan,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"  I  ?"  cried  Guy,  surprised,  and  getting  up  to  walk 
nervously  about  the  room.  "Why — of  course  I  came 
here.  My  father  came,  and  it  was  his  last  wish  that 
I  should  come." 

"Really  ?  Do  you  know,  you  surprise  me."  And 
Randolph  rolled  another  cigarette.  "  Fellows  whose 
people  have  come  before  them  usually  take  it  in  a 
diffr  rent  way.  Now,  you  really  seem  to  believe  in 
it  all." 

"Believe  in  it?  Of  course  I  do.  Why  did  you 
come  yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  mere  coming.  But  there 
is  only  one  attitude  possible  for  a  gentleman  now-a- 
days  :  to  sit  and  think.  Life  doesn't  amount  to  any 
thing  ;  and  most  of  us  have  only  come  to  Cambridge 
to  learn  to  be  gentlemen." 

"You  mean,  to  be  mere  dreamers  ?" 

"  Dreaming  isn't  so  bad.  Most  fine  things  left  us 
are  dreams.  Besides,  the  real  may  be  the  false  and 
not  the  true.  There  are  visions  truer  than  truth,  as 
some  poet  says." 

"  You  don't  mean  all  that  ! "  laughed  Guy. 

"  I  do,  by  Jove  ! "  said  Randolph,  more  earnestly. 
"Why,  if  it  seems  absurd,  take  one  of  the  stock 
aphorisms  that  they  cram  down  our  eclectic  throats 


72  GUERNDALE. 

now-a-days — a  man  is  a  man,  not  for  what  he  pos 
sesses,  but  for  what  he  is.  Now,  what  a  man  pos 
sesses  is  material  ;  what  he  is,  is  ideal.  According 
to  this  standard,  you  are  only  superior  to  a  hod- 
carrier  in  the  ideas  which  you  have  that  he  has  not. 
But  ideas  are  thoughts — visions— dreams  !  Q.  E. 
D." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Guy,  "in  that  half-metaphorical 
sense — in  that  light,  it  may  be  true." 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  you  grasp  the  wrong  light,  can 
I  ?  The  white  light  of  truth,  in  passing  through  the 
turbid  and  many-sided  prisms  of  this  world,  gets 
broken  into  many  lights  and  various  colors.  A 
humble  chap  like  myself  can  only  grab  an  occasional 
refracted  beam  and  sling  it  at  you.  You  must  put  it 
in  the  right  light  yourself." 

"  'The  idea  is  the  act  in  a  weaker  form,'  and  it  is 
only  worth  anything  because  of  the  act.  I  wish  to 
do  something  with  my  life,"  said  Guy. 

"  Bah  !  you  can't  even  think  anything  new,  much 
less  do  anything  new.  Besides,  college  men  are  out 
of  date  ;  they're  not  in  sympathy  with  the  masses. 
Life,  my  boy,  is  nothing  but  a  grim  pleasantry — a 
silly  little  toy,  given  to  man  to  amuse  himself  with 
as  he  likes  !  He  usually  breaks  it,  sooner  or  later, 
over  something  or  other,  and  it  doesn't  make  much 
difference  whether  he  breaks  it  in  pursuing  a  muse 
or  a  mistress." 

"  What  immoral  French  idiot  said  that  ?"  sang  out 
John  Strang.  "  I  know  you  cribbed  it  from  some 
body,  you  second-hand  satirist." 

"  Strang,  my  son,  you  may  go  now,  and  shut  the 


GUERNDALE.  73 

door  behind  you.  Your  mind  is  too  mechanical  to 
appreciate  the  finer  play  of  fancy.  Moreover,  your 
base  insinuation  of  plagiarism  falls  flat.  As  an  epi 
tome  of  modern  thought,  a  cultivated  man  must 
plagiarize.  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  as 
that  jolly  old  boy  said  in  the  Hebrew  bible." 

Strang  said  he  had  to  go,  anyhow,  to  run  with  the 
crew,  and  closed  the  door  with  a  grunt  of  disgust. 
Randolph  turned  to  Guerndale,  with  a  sweet  smile. 

"  No,"  said  Guy  slowly.  "  I  mean  to  live  my  life 
for  what  it  is  worth.  And  if  you  mean  that,  because 
a  fellow  is  highly  educated,  he  is  to  take  no  interest 
in  things,  it  is  absurd." 

"Schopenhauer  said  that  the  peculiar  character 
of  the  Americans  of  the  Northern  States,  was  vul 
garity  ;  vulgarity  in  all  its  forms,  moral,  intellectual, 
aesthetic,  and  social.  And  Renan — let  me  show  you 
what  Renan  says."  And  Randolph  lazily  reached 
for  a  book  on  the  centre-table,  and  opening  it  showed 
to  Guy  a  scored  passage  : 

"  Les  pays  qui  comme  les  Etats-Unis  ont  cree  un 
enseignement  populaire  considerable  sans  instruc 
tion  superieure  serieuse,  expieront  encore  longtemps 
leur  faute  par  leur  mediocrite  intellectuelle,  leur 
grossierete  de  moeurs,  leur  esprit  superficiel,  leur 
manque  d'intelligence  generale." 

"Now,  my  boy,"  continued  Randolph,  "you  must 
either  do  like  the  people,  be  of  the  people,  or  dream 
— if  you  like — dream  what  the  people  of  this  country 
ought  to  be  and  arn't.  If  you  mean  to  dream, 
Harvard  College  is  the  best  place  for  you  ;  other 
wise  not.  A  college-bred  man  in  America,  must 
4 


74  GUERNDALE. 

wince  in  all  his  business,  even  in  his  social  relations 
— in  short,  he  must  go  through  life  holding  his  nose." 

"  Pardon  me,  Randolph,"  said  Guy,  excitedly. 
"  I  know  you  don't  think  what  you  say." 

"  Since  the  French  Revolution,  who  ever  could  ?  " 
muttered  Randolph,  en parent  he  se . 

"But,"  Guy  went  on,"  if  you  mean  that  a  high 
education  unfits  one  for  American  life,  I  deny  it. 
There  is  a  lot  that  is  vulgar  and  corrupt  in  Ameri 
can  life  I  know  ;  and  there  is  just  a  want  of  gen 
tlemen — men  who  have  been  born  to  ease  and 
enlightenment,  who  have  got  education  without 
narrowness,  and  have  not  been  taught  petty  shifts 
and  mean  motives  by  the  rss  angusta  domi ;  men 
who  have  been  bred  in  the  higher  views  of  life. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  having  too  many  '  self- 
made  '  men.  Take  politics  for  instance.  What  we 
need  there  is  men  whose  honor  is  above  suspicion, 
who  have  love  of  country  without  bigotry,  and  ed 
ucation  without  false  pride  in  it  ;  men  who  are  wil 
ling — as  I  mean  to  be — to  plunge  fairly  into  the 
stream,  neck  and  neck  with  the  self-taught  mechanic 
and  the  untrained  immigrant ;  men  who  dare  meet 
and  confront  a  demagogue  on  his  own  ground.  Such 
men  are  rare  with  us  ;  but  we  can  each  try  to  be  one." 

The  boy's  words  came  tumbling,  one  over  another, 
almost  too  rapidly  for  utterance  ;  he  rose  and  walked 
nervously  about  the  room;  Randolph  eyed  him  curi 
ously. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  talk  like  the  back  part  of  a 
spelling-book.  Now  don't  say  bosh !  and  look  dis 
gusted.  I  admire  you." 


GUERNDALE.  75 

Guy  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  lit  a  pipe,  and 
puffed  impatiently.  "  I  wish  you  would  talk  seri 
ously." 

"Ah,  don't  require  impossibilities.  The  world 
went  on  seriously  enough  for  an  indefinite  number 
of  thousands  of  years.  Now  its  mood  is  humorous. 
Still,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  mean  to  pull  Ameri 
can  civilization  up  a  peg  or  two.  I  was  reading  an 
amiable  old  Chinese  prophet,  the  other  day,  who 
wrote  seventeen  hundred  years  before  Christ.  His 
name  was  Lao-Tse  ;  he  was  blue  about  the  state  of 
China,  which  he  predicted  would  result  in  the  arrest 
of  culture  and  partial  progress  backward.  The  sa 
gacious  old  heathen,  as  A.  Ward  would  say,  was 
right,  and  the  signs  of  the  times  he  saw  remind  me 
hugely  of  America  to-day — indolence,  indifference 
to  metaphysical  and  ideal  good,  practical  material 
ism  with  corrupt  conditions  of  Government.  See 
what  this  Chinese  critic  complained  of — "  and  again 
Randolph  took  a  bpok  and  read. 

" '  The  common  people  of  the  realm  are,  alas  ! 
too  rough,  too  uneducated,  too  comfortable — if  their 
meat  and  drink  tastes  good,  and  the  girls  have  a 
trinket,  and  they  have  a  snug  little  household,  that's 
enough.  The  people  take  pleasure  only  in  material 
things,  they  delight  in  the  commonplace,  they  only 
know  what  is  daily,  ordinary,  common.'  I'm  not  a 
snob  ;  it  may  be  that  all  old  families  are  descended 
from  robbers  or  ladies  of  doubtful  reputation.  But 
there  is  at  least  some  advantage  in  having  the  suc 
cessful  thief  a  few  generations  back.  The  refining 
influence  of  money  is  all  very  well ;  but  I  confess  I 


76  GUERNDALE. 

like  friends  with  whom  the  process  began  with  their 
grandfathers. 

"  '  Priez  pour  paix,  douce  vierge  Marie, 

Reine  des  cieux  et  du  monde  maitresse  ; 
Priez,  princes  qui  avez  seigneurie, 
Gentils  hommes  avec  chivalerie 
Car  mechants  gens  surmontent  gentillesse.' 

"  However,"  concluded   Randolph,  "  pitch  in,  by  I 
all  means,  if  you  like." 

"  You  know  what  I  told  you  a  year  ago,  when  we 
were  Freshmen,"  said  Guy,  confronting  him  and 
then  turning  away.  "  I  had  a  quiet,  sad  sort  of  life 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  never  thought  I  should  care 
much  for  action.  Direct  conflict  with  other  peoples' 
wills  was  distasteful  to  me.  They  jarred  upon  me. 
But  suddenly  I  changed.  I  felt  ambitious— I  don't 
know  why." 

"  You  don't  know  why  ? " 

"No,  but  I  went  to  school  with  Phil,  and  then 
came  here.  And  I  can't  tell  you,  Randolph,  how 
pleasant  it  has  been  for  me,  knowing  you.  You  are 
the  only  fellow  I  do  know  well,  except  Phil.  You 
are  a  great  deal  too  blase,  but  then  I  think  you  un 
derstand  things  better  than  most  men.  Only,  I 
really  can't  see  why  you  took  a  fancy  to  me  ? " 

"  Because  you  read  like  the  pages  of  an  old  book, 
my  boy,  before  the  leaves  have  turned,  or  been 
turned,  as  the  case  maybe,"  said  Randolph,  smiling. 
Just  then  the  door  opened  with  a  hearty  kick  upon 
the  panel,  and  Guy  took  his  leave,  as  a  troop  of 
young  men  came  in,  singing.  As  he  crossed  the 


GUERNDALE.  77 

yard,  he  wondered  whether  many  men  did  not,  after 
all,  think  like  Randolph.  His  moods  were  not  so 
very  new  to  Guy.  As  a  child,  he  might,  in  his 
childish  way,  have  thought  very  much  like  Ran 
dolph,  except  for  the  latter's  humor.  For  humor  is 
a  light  of  the  mind  which  only  comes  at  maturity, 
and  has  a  brighter  glow  in  the  decay  of  everything 
else.  How  did  it  happen  that  he  himself  was  so 
changed  ? 

Outwardly,  perhaps,  he  was  not.  He  was  shy  and 
sensitive  ;  as  a  rule,  men  did  not  see  much  in  him. 
But  that  was  natural  ;  for  he  was  not  much,  he  felt, 
especially  by  comparison  with  the  men  about  him, 
his  friends.  For  Guy  had  chosen  them  as  friends 
for  the  great  qualities  he  saw,  or  fancied  that  he 
saw,  in  each. 

Guerndale  was  a  tremendous  idealizer  as  \vell  of 
his  friends  as  of  the  world  in  general.  He  believed 
that  every  one  of  them  wras  the  expression  and  em 
bodiment  of  some  high  type  of  character  or  some 
great  excellence,  which  too  often  existed  only  in  his 
own  mind.  In  his  imagination  he  carried  a  collec 
tion  of  heroic  ideals,  and  each  man  he  met  and  liked 
was  at  once  properly  ranked,  and  erected  in  his  ap 
propriate  niche.  Thus  his  mind  became  a  sort  of  Wal- 
halla  of  worthies,  the  realities  of  whom  he  believed 
he  saw  in  the  world  about  him.  So  he  undervalued 
himself  ;  and,  perhaps,  we  were  too  ready  to  take 
him  at  his  own  valuation.  And  he,  in  turn,  was  ter 
ribly  afraid  of  being  a  bore,  and  inflicting  his  own 
unworthiness  upon  our  valuable  society.  He  was  a 
little  like  the  rich  and  diffident  fifth  member  in  deai 


78  GUERNDALE. 

old  Murger's  Scenes  tie  la  Vie  dc  Boheme,  the  only 
worthy  and  useful  fellow  among  a  set  of  scape 
graces.  I  did  not  think  so  at  the  time,  however. 

So,  when  Guy  entered  the  old,  smoke-stained, 
low-studded,  deep  window-seated  room  which  he 
shared  with  Phil  Symonds,  he  felt  bashful  at  dis 
turbing  the  gayety  of  the  scene  when  he  knew  he 
could  not  add  to  it.  For  Guy  was  not  good  at 
songs  and  stories  and  young  men's  conversations. 

A  dozen  or  more  students  were  lounging  about  in 
great  boyish  abandon.  One,  sitting  at  an  old  beer- 
ringed  piano  that  filled  one  side  of  the  room,  was 
struggling  with  a  college  song,  while  a  group  of 
others  waited  with  eager  breath  to  encourage  the 
performer  by  a  chorus  in  which  confidence  was 
more  noticeable  than  precision.  Symonds  and  John 
Strang  alone  were  not  drinking  and  smoking,  being 
both  provisionally  in  the  University  six,  and  were 
telling  an  interested  group  of  a  brush  they  had  had 
in  their  barge  with  the  Freshmen  shell.  Little  Billy 
Bixby  was  throwing  poker  hands  with  Van  Sittart, 
of  New  York,  stopping  now  and  then  to  tell  a  story 
of  the  unmentionable  order — what  John  Strang  used 
to  call  profane  histories — and  sipping  from  a  tum 
bler  of  brandy  and  absinthe  at  his  side.  This  was  a 
beverage  he  had  lately  introduced  into  Cambridge, 
and  his  friends  watched  him  drink  it  with  interest 
not  unmingled  with  admiration,  for  it  was  said  that 
old  Dr.  Wayland  had  warned  Bixby  that  six  months 
of  it  would  kill  him.  In  a  distant  corner  was  stand 
ing  Mr.  Lefauconeur  Lyndhurst  Lane,  buttonholed 
earnestly  by  Seth  Hackett,  who  was  partially  reveal- 


GUERNDALE.  79 

ing  some  scheme  of  society  log-rolling.  Lane's  atti 
tude  was,  perhaps,  expressive  of  boredom,  but  his 
face  was  as  faultless  as  a  society  expression  and  an 
eye-glass  could  make  it. 

"What  show  for  the  crew,  Phil  ?"  sang  out  Van 
Sittart  over  four  aces,  by  way  of  keeping  his  counte 
nance. 

"Pretty  fair,  I  guess.  We  haven't  much  beef  in 
the  boat,  but  they  say  half  the  Yale  crew  can't  pull 
their  own  weight." 

"  Pluck  and  science  against  muscle,  as  usual," 
said  Bixby,  after  making  an  unsuccessful  "raise"  of 
ten  dollars  on  a  "full." 

"  Billy,  you  can't  play  to-night.  Better  keep  that 
little  appointment  of  yours — it's  past  eleven,"  and 
Symonds  sauntered  up,  his  golden  hair  tossed  back, 
a  twinkle  in  his  merry  gray  eyes,  the  tight  blue  jer 
sey  open  at  the  neck,  showing  a  superb  throat,  still 
flushed  with  the  evening  run  of  the  crew. 

"  I've  got  a  detitr,  Phil,"  said  Guy,  timidly,  by 
way  of  announcing  his  presence,  which  no  one  had 
yet  noticed.  This  bit  of  news  was  received  with 
derisive  laughter.  Hackett,  who  was  secretly  grind 
ing  for  honors,  but  feared  such  ambitions,  if  known, 
might  injure  his  political  influence  in  the  class, 
laughed  louder  than  the  rest. 

"A  detur,  by  gad!"  laughed -Phil,  "what  is  it, 
young  'un  ?  A  '  college  bible  '  or  Edgeworth's  Moral 
Tales  ?" 

"  Throw  you  poker  hands  for  it ! "  said  Van  Sit-- 
tart. 

"  What  the  blank  is  a  detur  ?  "  cried  Bixby. 


80  GUERNDALE. 

"  Cm  habct,  detur"  growled  Strang,  amid  cries  of 
Shop  !  Shop  !  "  Shut  up,  you  fellows  on  the  piano 
there — Men  chid,  chant?,  as  says  the  gentle  humorist. 
There  is  something,  in  the  sanctity  of  the  hour,  that 
suggests,  to  the  \vearied  spirit,  beer  ! " 

"Beer  on  Guerndale  !  Magna — prosit!"  cried 
Van  Sittart,  who  had  spent  a  semester  at  Heidel 
berg. 

Symonds  went  to  a  little  refrigerator,  and  pro 
duced  another  dozen  bottles  of  the  required  bev 
erage. 

"  Sit  down,  and  have  a  game,  old  man  ! "  said 
Bixby. 

"  You  ought  not  to,  Phil — you're  on  the  crew, 
you  know,"  remonstrated  Guy,  who  was  anxious  for 
his  chum's  success. 

"Dry  up,  Guy,"  said  Symonds  angrily.  "Time 
enough  to  train  before  the  race."  And  the  three 
drew  up  to  the  table,  Guy,  who  had  a  morbid  fear 
of  being  thought  ungracious,  joining  them.  Bixby 
went  off  on  some  mysterious  errand  in  a  coupe. 
Lane  took  his  leave  politely  ;  Hackett  offering  him 
his  company  across  the  yard,  which  Lane  refused, 
on  the  ground  that  he  meant  to  stop  and  see  Tom 
Brattle.  But  he  did  not  do  so,  for  Hackett  saw  him 
walk  across  the  quadrangle  to  his  own  hall. 

"  The  damned  snob  ! "  muttered  Hackett,  as  he 
looked  after  him,  grinding  his  heel  into  the  gravel. 

When  the  bell  rang  for  prayers,  the  four  were 
still  at  the  card-table.  Guy  went  out  for  a  morning 
walk,  feeling  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  done 
what  he  did  not  like  for  fear  of  incurring  odium. 


GUERNDALE.  8 1 

Van  Sittart  and  Bixby,  who  humorously  complained 
that  the  Faculty  could  not  expect  a  fellow  to  sit 
up  until  such  an  unearthly  hour  for  prayers,  went 
home  ;  while  Philx  having  lost  largely,  dismissed  his 
guests  with  a  parting  joke  at  the  door  and  then 
went  sulkily  to  bed  and  slept  till  noon. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"Ne  dites  jamais  de  mal  de  vous-meme.     Vos  amis  en  diront  toujours  assez." 
—PROSPER  MERIMEE. 

"Eat,  drink,  and  play,  and  think  that  this  is  bliss  : 
There  is  no  heaven  but  this  ; 

There  is  no  hell, 
Save  earth,  which  serves  the  purpose  doubly  well  .... 

"  Eat,  drink,  and  die,  for  we  are  souls  bereaved  : 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  heaven's  wide  cope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once  most  hope, 
And  most  beliefless,  that  had  most  believed." — CLOUGH. 

"  "IV   /T  Y  dear  Guy  !  what  is  the  use  of  your  grind- 
J.V  J.    ing  away  so  over  mathematics  ?    Mere  form 
without  content.     Two-and-two-make-four-and-can't- 
make-five  narrow,  pestilent  bigotry  !  " 

"Exact  science,"  interposed  Strang,  with  a  grunt. 
"All  cant- — and  cant  I  hoped  Kant  put  an  end  to  ! 
Exact  sciences  !  When  you  talk  like  that,  I  think, 
like  poor  dear  Heine,  of  his  old  doctor,  Saul  Ascher; 
— Saul  Ascher,  with  his  abstract  legs,  his  tight,  tran 
scendental-gray  body  coat,  and  his  stiff,  cold  face, 
that  might  have  served  as  a  copper-plate  to  print  a 
geometrical  diagram; — Saul  Ascher,  who  was  a  right- 
line  personified,  and  had  philosophized  every  sun 
beam,  faith,  and  flower,  clean  out  of  life,  and  left 
nothing  for  himself  but  a  positive  cold  grave; — Saui 


GUERNDALE.  83 

Ascher  (pass  me  a  cigarette,  please,  Guy — thanks, 
much),  who  had  an  especial  malice  for  the  Apollo 
Belvidere  and  the  Christian  religion;  he  lived  on  co 
ordinate  paper,  and  when  he  died  you  felt  as  much 
emotion  as  when  you  said,  '  Let  the  line  A  B  be  ex 
tended  to  infinity  ! ' " 

''Hold  on!  "said  John,  "till  I  write  that  down! 
Put  in  my  examination-paper  in  conic  sections,  it 
might  soften  old  Calculus." 

"  No,"  added  the  speaker,  "  but  what  do  you  mean 
by  talking  of  exact  sciences  ?  How  do  you  know 
the  whole  thing  is  anything  more  than  phenomenal 
and  provisional,  anyway  ?  Time  and  space,  thank 
the  Lord,  are  mere  temporary  curses,  and  won't 
aftiict  us  always  ! " 

These  energetic  speeches  came  softly  out  with  the 
quiet,  rich  accent  of  Norton  Randolph.  Randolph, 
even  when  he  used  to  swear,  which  was  seldom, 
swore  you  an  't  were  any  sucking  dove.  He  now 
spoke  in  precisely  the  tone  he  would  use  if  remon 
strating  with  a  girl  for  not  dancing  with  him. 

"Training  for  the  mind!"  replied  Guyon,  with  a 
cloud  of  smoke. 

"Gymnastics  for  blind  puppies'"  sighed  Ran 
dolph,  weariedly.  "  In  the  first  place,  the  people 
don't  want  trained  minds,  and  you  want  to  suit  the 
people.  In  the  next  place,  mathematics  are  not  half 
the  brace  that  a  little  judicious  metaphysical  fog  is. 
Leave  Cartesian  co-ordinates  for  Cartesian  contra 
dictories.  You  will  wake  up  some  day,  as  Hamilton 
did,  like  another  Faust,  and  find  that  quaternions 
are  as  empty  as  the  multiplication  table." 


84  GUERNDALE. 

"Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Gtierndale.  "  I  wish  the  war 
were  still  going  on  !  There,  at  least,  Randolph,  is 
one  thing  you  can't  deprecate." 

"  I,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I  never  deprecate.  All 
things  are  very  good,  no  doubt.  And  one  thing  is  as 
good  as  another.  Besides,  I  admire  the  war.  It  is 
the  only  instance  within  my  knowledge,  in  modern 
times,  of  a  purely  ideal  motive  swaying  mankind. 
It  was  superb  to  see  a  whole  nation  make  a  fool  of 
itself  even  as  one  man  !  It  was  sublime !  They 
could  not  have  been  greater  asses  if  they  had  been 
poets.  Moreover,  they  abolished  slavery." 

Guerndale  looked  at  him,  not  knowing  if  he  were 
in  jest  or  serious. 

•  "  O,  come,  Norton,  you  can't  say  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  patriotism  ? 

"  Breathes  there  a  man  with  sense  so  great 
That  this  or  any  other  State 
Is  all  the  same  to  him?  " 

laughed  Randolph.  "  When  I  was  young,  apple- 
tarts  were  my  passion.  Now  it  is  fame,  freedom, 
truth,  and  potagc  bisque.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  fame 
is  being  known  to  people  one  despises.  Power  is  the 
consciousness  that  an  aggregation  of  forty  millions 
of  fools  can  probably  pummel  one  of  twenty,  unless 
the  latter  are  very  much  bigger  fools  than  the  for 
mer.  Love  of  country  is  selfishness,  and  as  such  a 
perfectly  dignified  and  proper  thing.  It  rests  on  the 
desire  to  preserve  self  and  property  from  enemies. 
But  now  there  are  no  external  enemies  against 
whom  it  is  necessary  to  combine.  The  best  civil 


GUERNDALE.  85 

government  is  the  direct  and  local.  What  have 
you  to  show,  then,  that  this  country  could  not  be 
better  governed  if  split  up  into  sections  ?" 

"Like  Greece,  you  mean?  A  lot  of  little  states 
warring  among  themselves  ?  " 

"Well,  even  if  they  did,"  answered  Randolph, 
"  war  and  conflict  develop  the  purest  emotions  and 
the  highest  nobility  of  character.  And,  at  all  events, 
under  small  local  governments,  the  drains  and  roads 
and  prisons  might  all  be  better,  which,  as  modern 
science  shows  us,  is  the  one  great  thing.  What  you 
feel  is  simply  the  barbaric  and  vulgar  pride  of  being 
a  forty-millionth  of  a  big  and  bad  thing  rather  than 
a  millionth  of  something  better.  I  can  remember 
when  I  used  to  feel  just  your  way  :  whenever  I  went 
to  New  York  I  used  to  choose  the  biggest  steam 
boats  by  preference.  I  have  got  over  my  worship  of 
size  and  quantity.  Now  I  would  rather  go  to  Europe 
in  a  yacht  than  in  a  Cunarder.  If  you  want  spread- 
eagle,  go  to  Hackett.  He  is  practising  it  for  cau 
cuses  ;  it  is  his  cue,  and  he  will  give  you  a  dose  if  he 
gets  the  idea  you  like  it.  By  Jove  !  why  don't  you 
form  a  sort  of  political  partnership  with  him  ? " 
And  Randolph  laughed  from  the  depths  of  his  easy- 
chair. 

"  I  don't  like  him  !  " 

"  Raison  de  plus!  He  will  secretly  respect  you. 
He  will  pose  as  the  self-made  man,  the  spontaneous 
pillar  of  his  country  ;  and  it  will  be  his  duty  to  hate 
you  as  a  conservative  and  an  aristocrat.  But  he  will 
only  call  you  foul  names  in  public,  and  all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  take  them  in  a  Pickwickian  sense.  Besides,  if 


86  GUERNDALE. 

you  don't  make  him  a  friend,  he  will  certainly  over 
match  you.  He  is  mediocre,  and  the  people  want 
mediocrity.  As  my  old  friend  Lao-Tse  said,  the  peo 
ple  like  shine,  not  light;  they  don't  want  the  lamp 
of  truth,  but  fireworks.  Now,  you  are  a  bloated  aris 
tocrat,  and  will  be  so  impudent  as  to  think  you  can 
teach  the  people  something.  Moreover,  Hackett  is 
smart,  and  will  hob-nob  with  them;  and,  you  can  say 
what  you  like,  your  style  of  education  and  breeding 
will  put  you  out  of  tune  with  them.  The  elegant  sim 
plicity,  the  reserve,  the  polite  manners  of  the  great 
world,  cause  not  only  a  deep  aversion  for  coarse 
men,  common  men  of  all  parties,  but  a  true  hate, 
which  even  goes  as  far  as  a  thirst  for  their  blood  !  " 

"Pooh!  "said  Strang.  "I  happen  to  know  that 
you  cribbed  that  from  Gue^in's  memoirs,  for  I  read 
it  on  your  table  the  other  day.  And  just  below  that 
place  he  says  :  '  II  n'y  a  pas  un  homme  qui  ait  le 
droit  de  mepriser  les  hommes.' ): 

"Well,  it  is  true,"  said  Randolph.  "I  remember 
how  the  men  at  the  Union  Club  thronged  to  the 
windows  as  the  Irish  societies  passed  by  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  at  the  time  of  the  draft  riots ;  and  we  all 
said  the  time  was  coming  when  we  should  have  to 
shoot  those  fellows  down.  Now,  Hackett  is  enough 
akin  to  the  proletariat  to  know  how  to  manage  it." 

The  door  opened  and  Hackett  entered. 

"We  have  been  talking  politics,  Mr.  Hackett," 
said  Randolph — "a  conversation  rather  in  your  line, 
I  fancy  ? " 

Hackett  looked  suspiciously  at  the  speaker,  and  ac 
cepted  the  proffered  chair  with  an  assumption  of  ease. 


GUERNDALE.  8/ 

"  Really,  don't  you  think  it  is  rather  warm  for 
such  an  appalling  subject?"  and  he  rolled  a  ciga 
rette  with  a  languid  exaggeration  of  Randolph's 
manner. 

"Mr.  Guerndale  has  been  treating  me  to  quite  an 
extreme  dose  of  abolitionism,"  said  Randolph. 

"Ah  !  "  said  Hackett,  after  a  moment's  delay  ;  "  I 
think  it  is  a  great  pity  that  the  two  sides  should 
have  been  so  exaggerated  in  the  war.  I  think,  at 
best,  it  was  an  unfortunate  business.  The  effect  is 
very  noticeable  here.  A  charming  element  of  col 
lege  society  is  lost  to  us  in  the  Southerners.  I  don't 
know  as  we  shall  ever  recover  it.  By  the  way,  you 
are  from  Virginia,  are  you  not  ? " 

Guy  walked  to  the  window. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  am,"  said  Randolph,  slightly 
emphasizing  the  word  in  correction  of  Hackett's 
grammatical  error.  "  My  father  was  ;  but,  as  we  have 
just  been  saying,  the  feeling  of  birth  is  an  obsolete 
and  narrowing  sentiment." 

"I  came  to  speak  to  you,  Randolph,  about  a  lit 
tle  club  we  are  organizing  :  both  for  dining,  and  to 
enable  us  by  organization  to  give  a  more  definite  in 
fluence  to  our  opinions  among  the  class.  By  getting 
two  or  three  of  the  more  prominent  men  of  each 
section,  we  may  privately  exert  a  very  considerable 
influence,  perhaps,  even  to  a  majority.  And  at  the 
dinners  we  hope  to  have  elegant — a — charming  times. 
I  hope,  Randolph " 

"Really,  Mr.  Hackett,"  began  the  latter,  but  he 
was  saved  the  labor  of  replying  by  the  entry  of 
Lane,  Bixby,  Brattle,  and  Symonds  in  a  burst  of 


88  GUERNDALE. 

laughter,  caused  apparently  by  some  story  of  Sy- 
monds  as  they  were  coming  up  the  stairs.  Soon 
after  Hackett  rose  and  took  his  leave,  somewhat 
awkwardly,  and  with  an  uncomfortable  sensation  of 
probable  comments  behind  his  back,  wrhich  he 
could  neither  avoid  nor  conceal.  Nor  was  he  dis 
appointed. 

''There,"  said  Strang,  "goes  a  pure  skunk." 
All  assented  with  more  or  less  enthusiasm  ;  even 
Phil  Symonds  admitting,  with  a  sort  of  jovial  dis 
approval,  that  he  was  a  damned  fool.  Lane  alone 
was  silent,  but,  upon  being  playfully  urged  to  ex 
press  himself,  blushed  deeply  and  confessed  that 
he  thought  him  "  a  cad." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  sort  of  fellow  comes  here 
for,"  said  Bixby. 

"  Comes  here  for  ?  I  fancy  that  it  pays  him  better 
than  any  of  us.  The  faculty  like  that  sort  of  thing. 
They  regard  him  as  a  successful  graduate.  He  will 
be  near  the  head  of  his  class  ;  orator  if  he  can  ; 
leaves  here  with  the  endorsement  of  all  the  profess 
ors,  two  or  three  scholarships  in  his  pocket,  and  is  a 
university  man."  So  said  Randolph,  and  Strang 
nodded  his  head. 

"  Yet,"  said  the  latter,  "  one  does  admire  success." 
"  Do  you  ? "  said  Randolph,  coldly  ;  "  I  don't." 
Strang  shrugged  his  shoulders.      "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  this  summer,  Billy  ? "  said  he  to  Bixby, 
who  was  already  late  in  his  second  glass  of  "  Bixby's 
mixture." 

"  Go  to  Paris,  I  think.  Run  down  to  Monte  Carlo 
to  have  a  time.  Want  to  come  ? " 


GUERNDALE.  89 

"Can't,"  said  Strang,  "After  the  race  I  am  go 
ing  on  an  engineering  party  out  to  Colorado.  Better 
come,  Phil,"  said  he,  turning  to  Symonds. 

"  Much  obliged.  I'm  going  yachting  with  some 
fellows,  and  then  down  to  Newport  to  stay  with 
Randolph.  I  like  to  loaf  in  summer  myself." 

"Why  don't  you  go  down  to  a  sea-side  hotel  then, 
and  loaf  on  the  piazza,  and  drink  cocktails,  and  sit  on 
the  rocks  with  the  girls  ?"  grunted  Strang.  "They 
are  even  sillier  in  summer  than  in  winter." 

"  O,  they're  well  enough  if  they're  pretty.  What 
more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"No  more  can  we  expect,  certainly.  What  went 
ye  out  for  to  see  ?"  grunted  Strang.  "A  silk  dress 
shaken  in  the  wind  ?  Well,  good-night  ;  training 
time,  you  know." 

"Queer  stick,  that  Strang,"  said  Brattle,  as  the 
door  closed  behind  him. 

"  Damned  cranky  cuss,"  snarled  Bixby,  over  his 
third  glass,  "  cocky  enough  for  his  own  statue." 

"  Well,  it  takes  all  sorts  of  men  to  make  a  world," 
said  Van  Sittart. 

"  He  means  well,"  threw  in  Randolph,  with  a  tinge 
of  amusement  in  his  voice. 

"Any  of  you  fellows  want  to  come  in  behind  the 
scenes  ?  Some  devilish  pretty  girls  in  the  ballet.  I 
knew  the  prompter  in  Paris — a  little  Italian  fellow — 
and  he'll  get  me  in." 

"  Thank  you,  Billy,  not  to-night,  I  guess,"  said 
Brattle  ;  then,  as  Bixby  took  his  leave,  "how  any  of 
you  men  can  stand  that  fellow,  I  don't  see." 

"  Oh,  Billy  isn't  so  bad,"  said  Randolph.     "  A  cup 


9O  GUERNDALE. 

of  sack,  please,  Guy.  Thanks.  Billy  isn't  half  such 
a  fool  as  he  looks." 

"  Little  Parisian  snob,"  said  Lane. 

"  Why,  Faucy,  I  never  knew  you  to  be  so  worked 
up,"  laughed  Randolph.  "  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Lane,  smiling  and  blushing,  "just 
because  he's  got  a  lot  of  money,  and  impudence,  and 
bad  style,  all  you  fellows  let  him  go  on.  His  father 
was  an  oil  man  or  something  like,  and  they  live 
over  there  because  people  won't  receive  them  here. 
Well,  good-night ;  I've  got  a  party  in  town." 

"Jove,  Randolph,"  said  Van  Sittart,  who  had 
hitherto  been  absorbed  in  poker  with  Bixby,  "your 
Boston  men  are  the  weakest  little  snobs  of  the  lot. 
What  difference  does  it  make  who  a  fellow's  people 
are,  if  he  shoots  and  drives  a  good  drag,  and  plays  a 
square  game  of  poker  ?  Time  enough  to  cut  him 
when  you  get  married." 

"  Lane's  a  curious  chap,"  said  Brattle.  "  He's  my 
cousin,  and  we've  always  been  together,  and  he's  a 
good-natured  fellow  and  all  that.  But  he  never  had 
an  idea  that  hadn't  been  previously  strained  through 
the  minds  of  all  the  old  dowagers  in  Boston.  Yes,  I 
suppose  he  is  a  good  deal  of  an  ass.  Hullo,  Phil — 
you  going,  too  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Symonds,  "  Guy  and  I  have  put  on  a 
brace  for  early  hours.  Good-night,  boys  !  " 

"  Good-night,  Phil !  good-night  !  " 

"  Good-night,  Guy,"  said  Randolph,  going  with 
him  to  the  door.  "  Don't  forget  that  walk  to-mor 
row  !  " 

"Why  the  deuce  does  Symonds  chum  with  that 


GUERNDALE.  91 

poor  little  devil  of  a  Guerndale  ?  said  Van  Sit- 
tart. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shouldn't  put  it  the  other 
way,"  said  Randolph.  "What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Brattle  ? " 

"  O,  Phil  likes  to  be  admired,  and  he  can't  find 
anybody  else  to  do  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Brattle. 
"You  might  as  well  room  alone,  old  three-of-a-kind. 
Ta-ta ! "  and  Brattle,  decorated  with  a  velveteen 
smoking-jacket  and  a  huge  pipe,  took  his  way  across 
the  yard. 

"  Disagreeable,  sarcastic  devil,  that  Brattle," 
growled  Van  Sittart.  "  Excuse  me  a  moment,  old 
man,  but  as  soon  as  he  gets  well  along  I'll  follow." 

"  Si.ay  as  long  as  you  like,  Van.  By  the  way,  I 
hear  the  play  was  pretty  high  the  other  night  ? " 

"  Yes,  devilish  rough  it  was,  too.  You  know  that 
little  fellow,  Pruyn,  of  Princeton,  is  engaged  to  Miss 
de  Ruyter,  of  New  York — a  regular  love-match,  they 
say — and  they  are  to  be  married  in  a  month.  Well, 
they  haven't  either  of  them  enough  money  to  pay  the 
parson  ;  and  Phil  and  I  got  Pruyn  up  to  his  room 
and  got  a  five  dollar  Van  John  on  him,  and  he  was 
out  $2,000  before  he  knew  where  he  was.  He  gave 
us  his  I.O.Us,  for  $1,600  to  me,  and  $400  to  Phil  ; 
and  I  know  he's  sure  pay  ;  for  he's  just  that  sort  of 
a  little  conscientious  fool  that  would  ;  but,  gad  !  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  hadn't  money  enough 
to  buy  a  wedding-present !  " 

"  Capital  joke,  by  Jove  ! "  said  Randolph.  "  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  in  ?" 

"  Well,  we  didn't  think  of  it  in  time.     But,  good- 


92  GUERNDALE. 

night,   Randolph,   much  obliged  for  your  hospital 
ity." 

Left  alone,  Mr.  Norton  Randolph  betook  himself 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  to  Thackeray.  A  deep  smile  on 
his  face  remained  as  a  sort  of  after-glow  of  the 
gayety  of  the  evening.  After  a  chapter  or  two  of 
"Vanity  Fair,"  he  turned  to  La  Rochefoucauld  ;  af 
ter  half  an  hour  of  which  he  wrote  and  sealed  the 
following  notes  : 

"  CAMBRIDGE,  FRIDAY. 

"Mv  DEAR  PRUYN. — I  won  several  I.O.Us,  of  yours  the  other 
night  and  have  bought  the  rest  at  twenty  per  cent,  on  their  face  in 
debtedness,  thinking  you  might  not  like  to  have  them  floating  about 
just  now,  and  would  prefer  having  them  held  all  by  me.  So  I  am 
now  your  creditor  ;  but  for  four  hundred  only.  You  may  pay  when 
you  like  ;  but  let  me  give  you  your  revenge  first  Yours, 

"  N.  RANDOLPH." 


"  CAMBRIDGE,  SATURDAY. 

"  DEAR  MR.  VAN  SITTART. — Pruyn  has  commissioned  me  to 
square  all  his  I.O.Us.  If  you  will  bring  me  yours,  I  can  draw  you 
a  check  for  the  full  amount,  $1,600,  I  believe  ?  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"NORTON  RANDOLPH." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  Randolph,  rising  wearily,  "  they 
all  say  every  other  fellow  is  a  damned  fool ;  and  I 
suppose  I  am  the  greatest  fool  of  the  lot,  after  all." 

And  going  to  bed,  this  inconsistent  cynic  smoked 
for  an  hour,  reading  over  his  hookah  a  comedy  of 
Calderon. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

"  Autrefois,"  dit  le  Diable,  "  pour  te  punir  de  ton  impolitesse,  j'aurai  pris  et 
emporte  ton  ame  ;  mais  qu'en  faire  aujourd'hui?  J'ai  des  ames  a  revendre." — 
J.  JANIN. 

"The  works  of  Dr.  Charming — the  last  words  of  religious  philosophy  in  a  land 
where  every  one  has  some  culture  and  superiorities  are  discountenanced — the 
flower  of  moral  and  intelligent  mediocrity." — MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

~T)  AXDOLPH  used  to  say  that  he  liked  to  get  up 
J_V  into  the  afternoon.  It  was  the  best  way  of  re 
alizing  the  land  where  it  was  always  afternoon.  Per 
haps,  it  was  this  habit  which  gained  for  him  Strang's 
jesting  sobriquet  of  "  the  mild-eyed  melancholy 
lotos-eater."  His  morning  lectures  suffered  some 
what  in  consequence  ;  but  he  chose  his  "electives," 
as  the  optional  courses  of  study  are  termed  at  Cam 
bridge,  with  a  special  view  to  the  times  of  day  the 
lectures  would  require  his  presence.  It  was,  ac 
cordingly,  about  one  of  the  following  day  \vhen 
Randolph  was  interrupted  over  his  coffee  by  Guern- 
dale's  arrival,  fit,  as  he  expressed  it,  for  a  walk. 
"  What  sort  of  weather  are  they  giving  us  ?" 
"  Glorious  !  do  come  on,  and  don't  dawdle  !  " 
"  My  dear  fellow,  a  gentleman  is  never  in  a  hurry. 
Are  you  sure  the  day  is  well  out  of  curl-papers  ? 
Besides,  let  me  see  if  I  haven't  a  lecture  this  after 
noon  " 


94  GUERNDALE. 

"  You  promised  last  night  to  come " 

"  Do  wait  a  moment,  Guy.  I  only  want  to  make 
sure  that  I  am  cutting  a  lecture  to  heighten  my  en 
joyment  of  the  walk.  Yes,  I've  got  a  recitation  in 
Ethics — just  the  thing  !  " 

"  What  a  delightful  old  poser  you  are  ! "  laughed 
Guerndale.  "  And  how  absurd  your  studying 
Ethics  ! " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Randolph,  seriously.  "It's  the 
best  fun  in  the  world  to  see  them  analyzing  and  or 
namenting  the  roof  after  cutting  away  the  rez-de- 
chaussee  and  the  entresol.  It's  one  of  the  best  jokes 
of  the  lot." 

"  You  seem  to  regard  everything  as  a  farce  gotten 
up  for  the  amusement  of  Mr.  Norton  Randolph," 
said  Guerndale,  as  they  walked  out  into  the  street. 

"Certainly,  my  sprouting  Telemachus.  Did  you 
ever  read  Carlyle  ?  Well,  Carlyle  in  my  opinion  is 
one  of  the  grandest  and  most  consummate  humbugs 
that  the  world  ever  produced — but  he  said  one  good 
thing.  He  said  that  humor  is  the  mood  of  a  god. 
F^ancy  how  bored  the  holy  first  cause  and  sustainer 
would  be  with  the  inanities  and  antics  of  his  creations 
below  here  if  he  couldn't  view  it  all  in  the  light  of 
humor  ?  Do  you  know  what  is  the  best  definition  of  a 
Bourgeois,  a  Philistine?  He  is  a  man  who  takes  things 
in  general  au  grand  serieux.  Fancy  God  taking  men 
au  serieux  !  The  Aristophanes  of  heaven,  as  Goethe 
says ! "  And  Randolph  switched  off  some  daisies 
savagely  with  his  cane.  "  God  help  us,  if  he  does." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  suddenly  taking  things 
rather  seriously  yourself." 


GUERNDALE.  95 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear  Guy.  I  beg  your  pardon.  The 
broadest  farce  and  the  deepest  tragedy  are  so  exactly 
alike  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  distinguish  them. 
However,  modern  times  have  almost  done  away 
with  both,  by  inventing  burlesque.  The  seriousness 
of  people  to-day  is  mere  stage-seriousness — buckram 
and  humbug.  That  is,  I  mean  'any  seriousness  ex 
cept  such  as  attends  their  chase  after  money,  and  the 
gratification  of  their  passions  ;  since  Quixote  men 
have  grown  ashamed  of  honor  and  love,  and  think 
only  of  pursuing  their  fortune  and  gratifying  their 
lust.  It  is  the  seriousness  of  the  chief  augur  at  the 
auspices  ;  of  the  charlatan  with  his  tongue  stuck  in 
his  cheek." 

"  I  don't  think  the  world  is  all  humbug,"  said 
Guy. 

"Neither  do  I.  But  humbug  is  the  tribute  men 
of  sense  pay  to  fools.  And  if  a  man  wants  worldly 

success — the  fools  being  in  the  majority It  is  a 

great  merit  in  Carlyle  to  attempt  to  show  people 
their  own  stupidity.  But  the  trouble  is,  Carlyle  is  a 
fool  himself.  He  complained  that  people  are  all 
talk  and  no  do,  and  there  is  no  other  fool  who  talks 
so  much  as  he,  and  so  little  to  the  purpose." 

"Still,"  said  Guy,  "I  do  not  think  that  life  is  a 
farce.  And  in  the  same  volume  of  Carlyle  from 
which  you  quote,  he  has  taken  as  a  motto,  Schiller's 
ernst  ist  das  Leben.  Because  you  laugh,  the  world  is 
not  laughable.  Besides,  I  think  you  are  more  or  less 
of  a  humbug  yourself.  There  may  be  some  people 
who  learn  the  sad  learning  of  laughter,  but  not  at 
your  age." 


96  GUERNDALE. 

Randolph  winced  a  little.  "  By  Jove,  Guy,  usu 
ally  you  seem  like  a  bear  with  all  his  troubles  before 
him,  but  sometimes  you  have  a  gleam  of  perspective. 
As  to  being  a  humbug,  of  course  I  am.  Most  men, 
who  don't  like  the  role  of  Manfred  have  to  make  be 
lieve  a  good  deal.  But,  I  stick  to  it :  the  part  of 
amused  spectator  is  the  proper  one  for  a  gentleman 
in  this  world." 

Guy  shook  himself  impatiently  and  walked  faster. 

"No,"  said  Randolph,  "hear  me.  I  think  there 
are  four  ways  of  taking  this  wrorld  :  the  Comical, 
the  Serious,  the  Serio-Comical,  and  the  Tragico- 
Burlesque.  There  are  people  who  take  life  comi 
cally,  who  go  in  for  fun  and  folly.  They  are  the 
fools  ;  they  are  also  the  happiest.  Then  there  are 
those  who  take  this  terrestrial  life  of  grub  and  grind 
and  petty  successes  au  grand  s'ericux — they  put  every 
thing  on  a  level  and  look  at  it  seriously.  These  are 
the  Philistines,  and  are  second  to  the  fools  in  good 
fortune.  The  remaining  two  classes  are  both  intelli 
gent,  both  unphilistine  ;  men  who  look  at  things 
serio-comically — they  are  the  men  of  talent  and  of 
high  success,  besides  being  the  most  agreeable. 
And  lastly,  the  poor  fellows  who  alternate  between 
tragedy  and  burlesque.  They  are  the  geniuses  ;  they 
usually  die  miserably  or  are  driven  mad  ;  and  are 
called  morbid  by  the  average  sensual  man.  They 
hate  convention,  and  scorn  meanness  both  of 
thought  or  aims  ;  they  are  snubbed  by  the  Philis 
tines  and  stoned  by  the  rabble.  Only  once  in  a 
while  a  Dante  or  a  Rabelais  survives  to  shame  his 
fellow-cits.  There  you  have  mankind,  their  nature 


GUERNDALE.  97 

and  their  works  ;  the  first  seek  amusement,  the  second 
are  busy  with  affairs  ;  the  third  achieve,  the  fourth 
suffer.  Comic,  Serious,  Serio-Comic,  Tragico-Bur- 
lesque — Fools,  Philistines,  Great  men,  Geniuses — 
Amusements,  Affairs,  Achievements,  Agonies.  You 
pays  your  money  and  you  takes  your  choice,"  Ran 
dolph  closed,  with  a  grin. 

"  And  which  do  you  prefer  ? " 

''Well,  the  world  in  general  laughs  with  the  fools, 
praises  the  Philistines,  worships  the  great  men,  and 
damns  the  geniuses.  I  laugh  at  the  fools,  despise 
the  Philistines,  have  a  reasonable  respect  for  the 
great  men,  and  pity  and  love  the  geniuses.  Tell 
me,  Guy,"  said  Randolph,  after  a  pause,  "  I  hope  I 
haven't  shocked  you  ?  /don't  believe  that  God  is 
human  at  all ;  but  if  people  will  insist  on  giving  him 
finite  passions,  I  think  with  Heine  that  humor  is 
the  only  suitable  mood." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  shocked." 

"  I  thought  not.  Van  Sittart  and  Bixby  and 
Hackett  would  have  been  shocked.  So  would  every 
one  over  forty  of  decent  character.  But  I  thought 
you  and  I  had  breathed  the  same  air — the  air  of  a 
dead  faith.  It  hangs  over  this  New  England  coun 
try  like  the  sad  gray  sky  of  Hawthorne's  novels. 
Religion  here  was  once  a  passion  ;  and  we  are  living 
in  the  ashes  of  it.  Isn't  it  strange,  this  New  Eng 
land  history  of  mceurs  ?  I  think  there  is  a  worn-out 
enthusiasm,  a  sort  of  nervous  prostration  in  the  very 
atmosphere.  We  seem  to  be  born  in  it.  You  and  I 
are  not  the  only  ones." 

"  No,"  sighed  Guy  ;  and  he  thought  of  his  father. 
5 


98  GUERNDALE. 

"  Do  you  know,"  added  he  then,  dreamily,  "  I  have 
always  had  a  sort  of  favorite  vision  in  my  mind 
of  what  you  mean.  Think  of  those  grim,  narrow, 
hard  old  Puritans— you  hate  them,  no  doubt." 

"  I  hate  them  ?"  interrupted  Norton.  "  Why,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  deplore  their  absence.  Didn't  my 
amiable  old  great-grandfather  write  a  famous  ser 
mon  on  '  the  Heart  of  New  England  Torn  by  the 
Blasphemies  of  the  Present  Generation  '  ? " 

"Well,  we  admire  them,"  continued  Guy;  "  for 
they  at  least  had  ideality  and  a  purpose — think  of 
the  first  scenes,  the  rude  board  chapel  in  the  midst 
of  a  clearing  ;  on  all  sides  the  unbroken  forest  of  a 
continent  ;  and  the  solemn  congregation  worship 
ping  a  cruel  God  without  book  or  liturgy,  holding  a 
rifle  instead  of  a  prayer-book.  Ah!  there  was  some 
thing  fine  in  that." 

"  That  will  do  for  one  picture,"  said  Randolph. 
"And  then  the  present  reaction,  the  failure,  the  cor 
ruption  of  it,  the  change  from  the  cold,  grim  poetry 
of  their  ideal  to  the  easy  fat  content  of  material  suc 
cess." 

"  They  came  to  worship  God — they  realized  a  bal 
ance  of  trade  in  their  favor " 

"  Yes  ;  and  then  the  perfect  failure  of  that  highest 
attempt  to  realize  religion  ;  pure  religion,  abstracted 
of  all  earthly  attractions,  non-emotional,  non-sensu 
ous.  For  they  did  fail  completely.  Think  of  that 
same  old  barn-like  church  now,  standing  gaunt  and 
lonely  in  a  cluster  of  modern  French  roofs  and  gin 
gerbread  moulding.  Religion  has  degenerated  into 
a  curious  social  custom.  I  look  at  a  New  England 


GUERNDALE.  99 

meeting-house  in  much  the  same  outside  way  that  I 
should  look  at  a  Chinese  joss-house — it  serves  as  a 
sort  of  social  nucleus  to  a  parish  where  they  period 
ically  run  into  debt,  and  cut  down  the  preacher's 
salary.  If  old  Dr.  Norton  were  to  appear  to  me  in 
an  indigestion — I  think  that  would  be  the  proper 
modern  explanation — and  talk  about  my  heart  being 
'rent  by  the  blasphemies  of  the  present  generation/ 
I  should  tell  him  that  'Fear  God,'  perhaps,  made 
many  men  pious,  but  the  proofs  of  the  existence  of 
God  have  made  most  men  atheists.  No  ;  Puritan 
ism — neither  faith  nor  metaphysics,  the  mathemati 
cal  religion — is  a  failure.  The  Roman  Church  has, 
at  least,  the  talent  of  making  herself  loved  and  her 
children  happy.  At  all  events,  Puritanism  will  do 
no  longer — look  at  the  church  named  Plymouth, 
and  think  of  the  satire  of  the  name.  The  people 
want  bread  and  circuses  ;  candles  on  the  altar  and 
theatrical  performances  in  the  vestry,  or  that  worse 
modern  vulgar  abomination  which  is  known  as  sen 
sational  preaching.  Oh,  it  is  very  funny  —  very 
funny — damned  funny." 

"  Oh,  come,  Randolph,  you  make  everything  out 
too  bad.  If  one  form  of  religion  has  run  its  course, 
it  is  not  a  reason  for  thinking  the  world  worse.  You 
say  yourself  you  don't  want  it — why  do  you  expect 
other  people  to  need  it  ? " 

"  Perhaps,"  laughed  Randolph,  "  I  am  like  Billy 
Bixby.  who  admitted  to  me  one  day  that  he  never 
went  inside  of  a  church  himself,  but  that  it  would 
make  him  seriously  unhappy  if  his  mother  and  sis 
ters  ceased  doing  so.  ...  The  truth  is,  Guyon, 


IOO  GUERNDALE. 

\vc  live  in  an  intellectual  air  of  failure.  The  best  we 
can  say  is,  that  our  forefathers  came  for  one  thing 
and  found  another — a  balance  of  trade,  as  you  sug 
gest.  It  may  be,  what  we  found  was  more  valuable 
than  what  we  sought — I  do  not  know.  Still  it  is  fail 
ure  ;  if  it  is  failing  only  in  the  way  that  fellow  failed 
in  getting  what  he  wanted,  who  was  always  unlucky, 
and  while  boring  for  water,  struck  gold.  You  know 
Morris'  '  Earthly  Paradise  ? '  We  seem  to  me  like 
the  men  in  that  book.  We  sought  a  high  ideality — 
\vhat  we  have  found  is  a  vulgar  reality." 

"  But,  Randolph,  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  so. 
When  I  said  we  had  realized  a  balance  of  trade  in 
our  favor,  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  reproach.  It  is 
surely  a  good  thing — at  least,  no  bad  thing.  We 
have  not  kept  up  the  old  ideas  of  the  Puritans  simply 
because  they  were  narrow  and  bad.  We  have  real 
ized  at  least  one  ideal — we  are  free — we  are  edu 
cated  !  " 

"  O  my  dear  boy,"  said  Norton,  "  don't  drop  back 
into  spelling-books.  If  you  think  the  tyranny  of 
the  coarse  rabble  better  than  that  of  the  finer  few,  I 
don't.  As  for  free  education,  consider  the  fitness  of 
things.  There  must  always  be  in  this  world  a  cer 
tain  number  of  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water.  If  among  that  class  arise  one  who  is  capable 
of  better  things,  and  really  wants  education,  let  him 
have  it  at  as  little  difficulty  to  himself  as  possible  ; 
but  Avhat  is  not  worth  desiring  and  acquiring  is 
not  worth  having.  Do  not  cram  education  and  dis 
content  down  the  throats  of  those  \vho  do  not  ask 
for  it.  Leave  them  to  their  toil,  that  their  sleep 


GUERNDALE.  IOI 

may  be  sound,  and  their  digestion  unimpaired.  In 
the  social  organization,  we  cannot  all  be  conscious 
nerve  ganglia  ;  there  must  be  the  healthy  uncon 
scious  bone  and  sinew  and  muscle  as  well.  Free 
education  means  free  and  accessible  ;  not  compul 
sory.  Let  the  clown  remain  a  clown  till  he  wishes 
to  be  something  else." 

"  But  they  vote,"  said  Guyon. 

"  Ah,  yes,  they  do.  I  forgot  that.  Well,  as  long 
as  we  gauge  our  civilization  by  the  broadest  base, 
perhaps,  it  is  as  well  to  raise  that  base  as  high  above 
the  mire  as  it  can  be  put.  Since,  by  our  systems, 
we  level  down,  not  up,  perhaps  we  had  better  make 
the  lowest  level  as  high  as  we  can." 

••  But,  Randolph,  I  have  cornered  you  there. 
And  besides,  I  don't  see  why  you  deny  the  refine 
ment  and  happiness  and  purity  of  our  general  civi 
lization.  Why  not  raise  the  mass  as  well  as  the 
few  ?  " 

"  Then,  I  say,  give  them  a  practical  industrial  ed 
ucation,  make  them  cooks,  mechanics,  engineers. 
With  all  our  cant  about  democracy,  there  is  more 
absurd  cant  about  '  genteel '  professions  than  ever. 
Our  education  is  founded  on  old  ornamental  models, 
designed  to  finish  that  useless  article  called  '  gentle 
man.'  Now  that  the  masses  feel  their  power,  they 
not  only  want  to  destroy  present  swells,  but  they 
want  to  be  nobs  themselves,  just  as  the  old  swells 
were.  Which  is  impossible  and  absurd.  Granted, 
one  man  is  as  good  as  another,  then  we  must  all  turn 
to  and  work.  If  you  can  be  as  good  a  judge  as  I 
can,  why  I  must  be  a  house-painter  just  as  soon  as 


102  GUERNUALE. 

you  ;  instead  of  which  every  country  boy  wants  to 
be  a  counter-jumper,  because  he  thinks  it  more  gen 
teel  than  learning  a  trade.  Why,  really,  Guy,  all 
the  old  foolish  ideas  of  the  land-owning  class  are  be 
ing  picked  up  and  refurbished  for  the  modern  eman 
cipated  peasantry.  Every  country  girl  wants  to  b*e 
fashionable,  and  every  carpenter's  son  wants  to  be  a 
merchant." 

"  I  think,  myself,  the  '  Latin  and  Greek  and  Art  an 
tique  '  business  is  a  little  overdone." 

"  Guyon,  let  me  tell  you  a  story.  My  father  told 
it  me,  and  I  know  it  is  true.  Some  years  ago  there 
was  a  respectable  Protestant  mechanic  in  Boston  who 
had  one  daughter.  She  showed  great  promise,  and 
some  ladies  took  an  interest  in  her.  They  sent  her 
to  a  good  school  and  gave  her  what  is  called  a  fine 
education  for  a  woman.  That  is,  she  acquired  re 
fined  tastes  ;  knew  a  few  facts  ;  enough  about  the 
history  of  the  world  to  make  contrasts  and  draw  con 
clusions  ;  learned  French  and  music,  and  fondness 
for  that  cleanliness  and  elegance  of  person  and  sur 
roundings  which  is  an  expensive  luxury  of  the  fav 
ored  few.  For  even  to  be  clean  in  this  world  requires 
money.  Well,  they  did  this,  not  with  the  view  of 
making  her  a  teacher,  which  is  but  a  limited  field, 
but,  with  great  ideas,  looking  to  give  her  a  higher 
life  and  influence  for  good  in  her  own  class.  She 
was  pretty.  Well  !  At  twenty  she  came  back  to  her 
home— a  small  suite  of  rooms  in  a  dirty  tenement. 
They  gave  her  a  piano  and  left  her,  each  saying  that 
was  true  charity.  Still  she  seemed  unhappy,  so  that 
it  was  a  relief  to  such  as  kept  track  of  her  when  she 


GUERNDALE.  103 

married  a  railway  employee — a  steady,  industrious 
fellow,  I  believe.  She  did  not  make  him  a  good 
vrife  :  so,  far  from  admiring  her,  he  found  her  a  bur 
then.  He  never  understood  her,  then  he  despised 
her,  finally  he  took  to  drink  and  beating  her.  She 
met  a  man  whom  she  liked — a  gentleman.  Her  hus 
band  was  not.  A  year  after,  you  met  her  on  the 
street  corners.  She  went  to  the  devil — if  there  is 
one.  Her  husband  died  of  drink,  her  father  of 
shame.  What  do  you  think  ? " 

"  I  think  it  a  case  of  ill-judged  charity,  and  that  it 
proves  nothing,"  said  Guyon.  "  Spite  of  all  you  say, 
I  think  our  civilization  pure  and  noble.  American 
girls  are  the  most  refined  and  the  most  virtuous  the 
worlc1  has  known.  Take  the  type  of  girl  described 
in  Mrs.  Stowe's  novels " 

"  That  is  a  type  that  is  passing  away,  it  is  a  relic 
of  the  singular  ideal  life  which  did  prevail  here — 
owing  to  universal  plenty  and  intelligence — up  to 
a  few  years  ago.  Go  along  our  seaport  towns  now 
and  you  will  find  universal  discontent,  vulgarity,  a 
cheap  imitation  of  bad  city  fashions  and  vice.  New 
England  will  shortly  be  the  most  immoral  country  we 
know.  And  the  sinister  fact  about  it  is  that  this  un- 
happiness  and  immorality  will  be  found  not  in  the 
highest  classes  or  the  lowrest,  but  in  the  great  middle 
class  on  which  the  social  life  and  future  of  a  nation 
depends.  We  are  accustomed  to  shrink  with  horror 
from  French  novels  and  French  morals.  To-day  the 
bourgeoisie  of  France  is  purer  and  happier  than  out 
own." 

As  Randolph  ended  they  saw  a  fine  apple-tree  ir 


104  GUERNDALE. 

a  field  by  the  roadside,  and  he  suggested  that  steal* 
ing  apples  was  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  diver 
sions.  When  they  had  filled  their  pockets  and  de 
scended  from  the  tree,  they  were  disturbed  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  large  dog,  increasing  hugely 
in  apparent  size  as  he  descended  the  hill  toward 
them.  Randolph,  laughing,  suggested  flight,  and  it 
was  with  some  exertion  that  they  got  over  the  gate 
a  short  distance  ahead  of  the  dog. 

"No,"  said  Randolph," attacking  one  of  the  ap 
ples,  "  Compare  Spenser  and  Spencer.  Spenser 
based  the  world  on  love,  loyalty,  courage,  faith,  and 
courtesy.  Spencer  bases  his  on  life,  on  competition, 
and  that  adaptation  which,  were  there  any  true  faith, 
would  be  cowardice.  The  latter  may  be  necessary  ; 
but  which  is  best  ?  " 

"A  third  is  possible,"  said  Guerndale.  "Co 
operation — based  on  sympathy." 

"  Co-operation  for  what?"  sa"id  Randolph. 

Guerndale  could  not  answer.  Finally  he  said, 
"life." 

"  Is  life  an  end  or  a  means  ? " 

"  O,  a  means,  of  course  !  " 

"  Means  to  what  ? " 

"  Happiness,"  said  Guerndale,  hesitating. 

"  Yes,  so  we  come  back  to  that  happiness,  the  old 
summum  bonum ;  with  the  difficult  modern  addition 
that  it  must  be  reached  here  and  now,  for  Spencer 
and  Co.  have  suppressed  a  future  or  ideal  existence, 
ex  hypothcsi.  Ah,  the  philosopher's  stone  was  a  less 
wild  dream  than  this.  And,  as  for  your  sympathy,  go 
into  your  highest,  best,  most  perfect  circles  of  soci- 


GUERNDALE.  IO5 

ety,  and  you  find  as  yet  no  approach  to  the  sym 
pathy  which  makes  such  co-operation  possible.  It 
may  come  with  the  millenium.  Why,  now  one 
cannot  even  fall  in  love  ! " 

"Love  ?"  said  Guerndale,  musingly. 

"  It  is  a  vulgar  expression,  I  know.  Look  at  the 
crew." 

They  were  standing  on  one  of  the  bridges  over 
Charles  River.  The  sun  was  just  setting  behind  the 
brown  country  hills,  and  through  the  oily  surface  of 
the  water  came  a  boat  shaped  like  a  dragon-fly.  The 
six  oars  rose  and  dipped  like  one,  and  as  the  barge 
dashed  beneath  them  they  could  see  the  mighty  play 
of  the  muscles  on  the  bared  backs,  the  flush  of  ex 
ercise  on  the  faces,  and  even  the  clear  healthy  eyes 
of  the  oarsmen.  All  the  vigor  of  animal  life  and 
contest  seemed  personified  in  the  firm  flesh  and  deep 
breath  and  strain  of  the  stroke,  and  there  he  was, 
Phil  —  Phil  Symonds  —  and  Guy  uttered  a  cry  of 
recognition  as  he  swept  beneath  the  bridge,  his  yel 
low  curls  tossing  in  the  sunlight,  his  oar  dipping 
clean  in  the  water  with  clear  even  sweep  to  the 
recover. 

"  Don't  you  think  they  can  beat  Yale  ? "  cried 
Guy.  "  I  know  Phil  will,  and  if  they  are  only  all 
like  him." 

"Ah,"  said  Randolph,  "perhaps,  the  old  Greek 
life  was  the  best  after  all." 

Just  then  a  carriage  drove  by  with  the  windows 
filled  with  the  heads  and  arms  and  legs  of  a  half- 
dozen  of  students  driving  to  the  city  for  a  supper 
and  theatre.  A  wild  song  came  from  the  party,  led 
5* 


IC6  GUERNDALE. 

by  Billy  Bixby,  waving  out  of  the  carriage  window 
an  empty  bottle  by  way  of  baton. 

"  Greek  again,"  said  Randolph,  with  a  smile. 
"  Corinth  versus  Sparta.  After  all,  perhaps,  either  is 
better  than  Manchester." 

When  Guerndale  told  me  this  conversation,  I  said 
that  Randolph  was  a  damned  fool. 

We  had  a  way  in  those  days  of  applying  that  epi 
thet  to  our  friends. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"An  occasional  booze  has  a  favorable  tendency  to  excite  the  faculties,  to 
warm  the  affections,  to  improve  the  manners,  and  to  form  the  character  of  youth." 
— T  'JRD  CAMPBELL,  Chief-Justice  af  England. 

"  Quae  fecisse  juvat,  facta  referre  pudet." — Ovid. 

I  DID  not  mean  to  drop  myself  in  at  the  end  of 
the  last  chapter,  but  those  old  days  when  we  all 
lived  a::d  loafed  and  thought  and  drank  together  in 
old  Cambridge  seem  so  vivid  in  my  memory  even 
now,  that  it  is  hard  to  talk  of  them  impersonally.  I 
did  think  Randolph  a  fool,  with  the  usual  qualifica 
tion  we  then  employed,  but  he  was  a  curious  and 
an  interesting  one.  Besides,  although  he  had  the 
crudity  of  statement  peculiar  to  youth,  I  don't  think 
ho  was  quite  such  a  fool  as  he  seemed  to  be.  I  can 
easily  understand  the  influence  he  had  over  Guern- 
dale.  He  could  laugh  at  everything  you  said,  and 
yet  with  such  an  exquisite  sympathy  and  apprecia 
tion  of  your  meaning,  that  you  thought  he  must  be 
right  in  laughing.  He  laughed  softly  and  sweetly, 
and  gently  led  you  to  see  the  absurdity  of  your  own 
enthusiasm.  And  he  was  always  on  his  guard  against 
expansion,  excitement,  enthusiasm.  He  never  gave 
himself  to  you  unreservedly,  but  always  kept  a  part 
to  himself.  His  idea  was  neither  to  deceive  himself 


108  GUERNDALE. 

nor  to  be  deceived  by  others,  to  act  as  if  always  in 
the  presence  of  an  indifferent  and  cynical  spectator. 
And  finally  he  became  himself  that  spectator.  Had 
Norton  Randolph  been  a  friend  of  Menelaus,  never 
would  the  swift  straight  ships  have  been  launched 
over  the  wine-color'd  sea,  nor  the  ten  years'  pulse  of 
battle  flowed  and  ebbed  about  Troy.  So  I  used  to 
think,  at  least.  But  suppose  he  had  been  Menelaus 
himself  ? 

I  am  not  fond  of  poetry  usually,  but  Homer 
always  had  a  fascination  for  me,  and  the  reader  must 
pardon  a  little  occasional  shop  from  him.  And,  if 
there  is  something  strained  and  halting  about  my 
metaphors,  and  something  a  bit  jerky  in  my  style,  I 
am  writing  this  part  of  my  story  down  in  Arizona 
among  mountains,  and  heat,  and  torrents,  and  "  ye 
dam  salvages,"  in  a  climate  where  a  good  honest 
English  rail  telescopes  out  at  noon  like  an  angle 
worm,  and  life  is  too  rough  for  art  to  be  over  easy. 

So,  many  a  walk  and  talk  did  Guy  and  Randolph 
have  together,  and  though  I  think  Guy  thought 
Randolph  in  one  way  not  up  to  Phil  Symond's 
elbow,  Phil  stood,  perhaps,  at  a  disadvantage  on 
a  long  talky  walky,  as  Strang  used  to  call  these 
peripatetics.  Then  Guy  got  into  a  way  of  taking 
curious  courses  of  study,  I  think  at  Randolph's  in 
stigation;  namely,  metaphysics.  For  if  there  be  an 
entire  impossibility  of  knowing  anything  about  the 
Lord  in  a  practical  way,  as  these  same  metaphysi 
cians  tell  us,  what  the  deuce  is  the  use  of  befogging 
one's  brains  and  making  one's  se]f  unhappy  over  their 
quiddities  and  systems  ?  I  consider  Locke  a  sensible 


GUERNDALE.  IO9 

philosopher,  and  I  mean  to  have  my  boys  read  him — 
when  they  are  old  enough  to  know  better.  But  Ran 
dolph,  and  afterward  Guerndale,  used  to  turn  up  their 
noses  at  Locke,  and  say  he  was  no  metaphysician  at 
all.  If  they  meant  by  this  that  he  said  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  metaphysics,  I  think  he  was  quite 
right.  But  I  have  always  noticed  that  those  fellows 
who  believed  least  in  religion,  and  hated  the  church 
as  the  devil  hates  holy-water,  particularly  if  there 
were  no  music  and  flummery  about  it,  and  they  came 
of  sensible  Unitarian  people,  were  just  the  ones  who 
spent  most  of  their  time  in  hunting  after  some  ab1 
stract,  or  Noumenon,  or  God  knows  what  modern 
substitute  for  Himself,  and  seemed  to  be  most  un 
happy  because  they  could  not  find  it. 

As  for  Randolph,  Guy  used  to  say  that  his  light 
laugh  would  set  you  to  thinking  more  than  one  of 
old  Dr.  Grimstone's  sermons.  Personally,  I  don't 
see  the  value  of  such  thinking,  and,  as  for  laughing — 
why,  the  man  would  laugh  at  the  Mont  Cenis  tunnel. 

Well,  Guy  began  with  a  course  in  Descartes 
(whose  writings  I  don't  so  much  object  to,  as  his 
"  I  think,  therefore  I  am,"  seems  to  afford  some 
sort  of  a  solid  basis  to  start  on  ;  though,  indeed,  I 
think  Herbert  Spencer  is  much  more  likely  to  be 
right  when  he  inverts  it  and  comes  out  somewheres 
about  /  am,  therefore  I  think.,  after  no  end  of  evolu 
tion  and  rigmarole  from  protoplasm)  —  then  he  ran 
through  the  gamut  until  he  finally  smashed  up  on 
Schopenhauer.  After  this  Guy  got  a  liking  for 
Montaigne  with  his  "  que  scais-je  ?  "  and  Charron 
with  his-  "  Je  ne  sais,"  and  some  other  duffer  with 


IIO  GUERNDALE. 

his  "  Qui  s^ait  ?  "  and  so  on.  Then  he  brought  up 
on  Rabelais,  whom  he  hated  ;  and,  the  worse  for 
Guerndale,  I  thought  ;  for  he  wandered  from  him 
into  romanticism,  and  then  into  ecclesiasticism  and 
agnosticism  ;  and  read  the  "  Confessions  of  St.  Au 
gustine,"  and  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  and  of  de 
Musset,  and  Janin,  and  every  other  so-called  con 
fession  that  St.  Augustine,  or  any  other  drivelling 
idiot,  ever  wrote.  He  cut  all  his  mathematics  and 
science  ;  and  then  he  left  the  classics  because,  he 
said,  they  lacked  "breadth  of  horizon,"  which  ex 
pression  I  have  since  found  in  "  Daniel  Deronda," 
a  book  somewhat  popular,  as  they  tell  me,  in  the 
States.  About  the  only  sensible  things  he  did  keep 
were  some  hours  in  American  History  ;  at  which 
lectures  he  used  to  have  continual  rows  with  Tutor 
Otis  about  Franklin,  and  Adams,  and  Hancock  ; 
though  I  never  could  quite  make  out  which  side 
either  of  them  took.  Then  he  stuck  pretty  hard  to 
his  Political  Economy,  which  he  seemed  to  have  a 
fairly  good  head  for  ;  and  I  think  he  always  had  a 
notion  in  those  days  of  going  into  politics,  much 
as  he  has  changed  since.  Curiously  enough,  this 
brings  me  back  to  the  next  scene  that  I  especially 
remember  in  college  ;  and  I  find  I  have  allowed  my 
self  to  run  away  with  myself  again.  I  have  been 
telling  not  what  Guy  saw,  but  what  I  saw,  when  I 
expressly  proposed  to  myself  the  opposite  !  I  must 
keep  myself  and  my  way  of  telling  the  story  out  of 
this,  if  I  can. 

The  evening  began  with  a  stupid  discussion  on  a 
dry  enough  subject — political  economy.     Guy  and 


GUERNDALE.  1 1 1 

Randolph  were  talking  in  the  latter's  room.  Guy, 
Avho  was  conservative  still,  from  force  of  habit,  had 
been  attacking  communism,  internationalism,  and 
the  general  tohu-bohu  which  sometimes  looms  up 
before  us  in  these  years.  Randolph  listened,  smok 
ing  as  usual.  It  was  one  of  his  fits  of  depression  ; 
but  outsiders  never  knew  when  Randolph  was 
"blue,"  except  that  he  drank  more  and  talked  less 
than  usual. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  have  got  to  come  to 
it,"  said  Randolph,  cutting  the  leaves  of  a  periodical 
called  the  Popular  Radical,  a  new  production  which 
some  friend  had  sent,  claiming  to  present  the 
latest  discovered  nuggets  of  truth.  It  had  also  a 
diaboHcal  cover  of  black  and  red  ink,  and  letter 
press  printed  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  which 
latter  was  said  to  be  a  new  device  to  prevent  weak 
ness  in  the  eyes  caused  by  reading  its  pages.  I  be 
lieve  the  benefit  of  this  discovery  did  not  extend  to 
the  brain. 

11  Come  to  what  ?" 

"  Communism,  in  some  form  or  other." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  You  yourself  have  been  studying  economy  lately. 
Haven't  they  taught  you  that  the  profits  of  all  labor 
must  be  divided  in  three  parts  :  first,  for  the  plant, 
which  is  raw  material  and  machinery  ;  second,  prof 
its,  which  you  give  to  the  capitalist ;  and  third,  and 
only  third,  wages  fund,  which  is  to  remunerate  the 
laborer  ? " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Well !     It  is  a  perfectly  established  fact  that  the 


112  GUERNDALE. 

proportion  of  profits  which  goes  for  plant  has  grown, 
and  is  growing  larger  and  larger.  More  and  more 
machinery  is  being  needed;  and,  of  course,  the  re 
ward  of  capital  can  vary  within  but  small  limits;  so, 
less  and  less  remains  for  the  merely  human  force, 
the  laborer.  It  is  demonstrable  that,  under  present 
conditions,  the  state  of  the  agricultural  or  manufac 
turing  laborer  must  become  more  and  more  miser 
able  as  compared  with  that  of  the  community  at 
large." 

"A  cheerful  outlook  you  take  !"  said  Guy. 

"  Well,"  continued  Randolph,  "  there  is  just  one 
way  of  escape.  Teach  the  laborer  to  be  a  capitalist. 
Give  him  an  interest  in  the  profits.  There  you  have 
co-operation — which  is  over  the  bridge  to  commun 
ism — and  there  we  are." 

Guy  was  silent  a  moment.  ''And  do  you  think 
co-operation  will  succeed  ?  " 

"  No.  At  least,  not  under  present  conditions.  It 
is  being  tried  in  England — at  Rochdale,  and  at  some 
of  the  collieries.  But  while  the  education  of  dis 
content  and  the  charity  of  pauperization  go  on,  it 
cannot  succeed.  Then,  when  it  fails,  and  the  masses 
starve,  you  and  I  will  have  to  shoot  them  in  the 
streets,  my  boy." 

"  You  talk  like  a  young  Carlyle,"  laughed  Guy. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  insult  me.  Carlyle's  writ 
ings  are  one  huge,  chaotic  mass  of  rant  and  grumble. 
He  is  always  telling  people  to  do,  and  never  by  any 
chance  telling  them  what  to  do.  Now,  I  say  that 
it  is  perfectly  obvious  what  to  do.  We  have  taken 
away  from  the  people  God,  and,  what  is  more  im- 


GUERNDALE.  113 

portant  practically,  the  idea  of  future  compensation. 
They  have  not  found  it  out  yet  ;  but  when  they  do 
they  will  naturally  proceed  to  smash  things.  As  in 
this  country  they  can  do  this  by  the  ballot,  I  do 
not  mean  that  there  will  necessarily  be  any  fighting 
here,  though  it  is  possible.  Still,  things  will,  in  a 
general  way,  be  smashed." 

"So  far  you  suggest  as  few  remedies  as  Carlyle 
himself,"  said  Guy. 

"  My  child,  I  have  the  floor."  ("  So  has  your  ar 
gument,"  muttered  Strang;  but  after  a  moment  of 
speechless  contempt,  Randolph  continued.)  "Now 
we  know  that  life,  up  to  the  highest  human  society 
from  the  lowest  single  spore,  is  the  object  of  all  ef 
fort  ;  and  all  successful  effort  requires  strength.  I 
propose,  as  the  only  way  of  impressing  the  necessity 
of  social,  moral,  and  physical  strength  on  the  people, 
that  all  criminal,  infirm,  and  insane  persons  be  ether 
ized.  Their  remains  will,  of  course,  be  utilized  in 
some  practical  commercial  way— leather,  bone  fer 
tilizers,  and  the  advancement  of  science.  This  may 
strike  you  as  harsh,  perhaps,  cruel  ;  but  it  is  not  so. 
I  can  show  you  that  the  misery  consequent  on  crime, 
lack  of  adjustment  to  environing  circumstances,  and, 
above  all,  weakness,  is  far  greater  than  would  be 
caused  by  my  process.  Besides,  it  is  obvious  that 
these  weak  creatures  and  their  descendants,  being 
ill-adjusted  to  their  environments,  must,  in  the  long 
run,  die  all  the  same,  after  having  caused  an  incal 
culable  amount  of  woe  and  suffering  to  others." 

"  No  society  has  the  right  to  kill,  except  for  self- 
preservation,"  said  Guy. 


1 14  GUERNDALE. 

"  This  is  self-preservation.  Moreover,  we  should 
try  to  inculcate  a  public  sentiment  that  to  be  ether 
ized  under  such  circumstances,  for  the  good  of  the 
State,  is  a  high  and  noble  duty.  This  we  can  do, 
for  similar  things  have  often  been  done.  Look  at 
the  Hindoo  widows,  who  burn  on  their  husbands' 
funeral  pyre  ;  or,  take  a  modern  example,  and  see 
how  many  men  are  ready  now  to  die  for  an  imper 
fect  State  in  a  contemptible  foreign  war.  In  my 
ideal  State  every  man  or  woman  will  see  that  it  is  far 
more  for  the  general  good  for  them  to  be  etherized 
than  as  now,  in  England,  for  soldiers  to  die  in  a  skir 
mish  in  Abyssinia  or  Ashanti.  Besides,  think  of  sui 
cide.  In  the  millenial  country  I  speak  of,  when  a 
man  becomes  so  weak  as  to  wish  to  die,  it  will  be 
come  for  the  highest  good  of  the  State  that  he 
should  do  so.  Self-murder  will  be  quite  a  noble  act, 
and  every  suicide  a  martyr." 

Strang  snarled  with  disgust. 

"  Cork  up,  old  man  ;  all  taken  from  your  favorite, 
Herbert  Spencer,  or  logically  deduced,'*  retorted 
Randolph. 

"But,  Norton,  you  forget  one  thing,"  said  Guy. 
"You  speak  of  the  State  as  a  thing  by  itself  worthy 
of  love.  But  the  State  is  a  mere  assemblage  of 
human  beings,  and  if  man  does  not  care  for  his  fel 
low  man — which  seems  to  be  a  necessity  of  your 
plan,  for  it  shuts  out  sympathy,  pity,  and  mercy — he 
will  not  care  for  that  aggregation  of  his  fellow  men 
which  you  call  the  State." 

"Yet  patriotism  has  existed.  If  the  State  is  to  be 
preserved " 


GUERNDALE.  1 1  5 

"  Save  the  State  ?"  cried  Bixby,  who  had  entered, 
and  overheard  the  last  remark.  "  Oh,  dammit.  Let 
it  spoil,  and  get  a  fresh  one.  You  can't  preserve  a 
nation  like  pickles  or  canned  asparagus." 

"Patriotism  has  existed,"  Guy  replied,  "when 
men  loved  their  fellows  and  their  descendants  ;  when 
the  State  was  needed  as  a  protection  against  outside 
barbarians  ;  when  men  believed  in  immortal  life  ; 
when  they  believed  in  helping  the  weak,  in  charity, 
and  the  use  of  social  virtues.  But  in  your  plan  all 
these  are  wanting,  for  they  are  rooted  in  religious 
belief."  . 

"It  is  true,"  said  Randolph,  meditatively.  "We 
suppressed  God  ex  hypothesi.  Nevertheless,"  he 
added,  "  I  believe  I  am  right.  Something  of  the 
sore  exists  now  among  the  Chinese,  and  has  for  thou 
sands  of  years,  and  they,  poor  creatures,  are  still  in 
the  darkness,  and  have  not  the  broad  certainty  of 
vision  of  our  disbelief.  Don't  demur,"  Randolph 
went  on  ;  "I  say  disbelief.  All  thinking  men  are  so 
calmly  certain  of  their  materialism  that  they  do  not 
care  for  longer  argument.  They  treat  the  writings 
of  clergymen  who  dabble  in  science  with  super 
cilious  indulgence.  We  have  got  so  far  on  that  we 
even  speak  of  Christianity  and  other  superstitions 
with  polite  regret,  as  one  is  courteous  to  a  beaten 
adversary.  Curious  how  the  world  has  grown  in  a 
few  years  !  You  remember,  even  so  late  as  Thackeray, 
it  was  said  about  a  skeptical  old  major,  that  when 
ever  he  went  to  church,  he  did  it  with  a  sort  of  mar 
tial  bearing,  as  if  going  into  battle  ;  and  that  when 
he  received  the  benediction  he  took  it  erect,  with 


Il6    .  GUERNDALE. 

frock  coat  tightly  buttoned,  so  that  there  was  about 
him  a  certain  suggestion  of  receiving  his  adversary's 
fire  at  ten  paces  !  "  Randolph  stopped  to  ring  the 
bell.  "  No  one  is  even  afraid  to  go  to  church  any 
longer,  except  for  being  bored.  I  think  some  of  the 
most  indifferent  men  I  know  would  go,  if  they  would 
only  allow  smoking." 

Just  then  Randolph's  servant  entered  and  received 
some  cards  on  which  Randolph  hastily  scribbled  a 
line.  "  I  am  going  to  have  some  fellows  up  here  for 
a  little  wine,  Guy,"  said  he.  "You  see,  they  are  not 
only  much  better  fellows,  but  much  better  philos 
ophers  than  you  and  I,  and  can  enjoy  it." 

"But,  Norton,"  said  Guy,  "you  have  been  drink 
ing  steadily  all  the  evening." 

"  Bien,  apres  ?  I  must  get  into  training.  Man,  be 
ing  reasonable,  must  get  drunk,  you  know." 

"  Randolph,  you  know  perfectly  well,  you  never 
were  drunk  in  your  life,"  said  Guy  angrily. 

"  Not  for  want  of  trying,  however !  "  laughed  Ran 
dolph.  "No,  to  tell  the  truth,  and  talk  seriously,  a 
relic  of  Puritan  prejudice  sticks  to  me  in  that  respect. 
I  cannot  throw  it  off  ;  somehow  or  other,  as  a  matter 
of  taste,  intoxication  is  disagreeable  to  me.  Ah,  we 
are  weaker  than  our  forefathers,  and,  if  we  are  not, 
our  stomachs  are.  Rum  and  true  religion — both 
gone  !  What  are  we  to  do  !  " 

"  Oh,  dammit !  " 

"With  pleasure,  but  you  can't,"  said  Randolph 
calmly.  "  There  is  no  longer  any  such  thing  as  dam 
nation." 

Bixby  was  so  charged  with  profanity  that,  upon 


GUERNDALE.  1 1/ 

being  suddenly  touched  or  spoken  to,  he  emitted  a 
"dammit  "  very  much  as  an  electric  machine  does  a 
spark. 

"  Sit  down,  Bixby,  take  a  chair ;  I  have  just  asked 
Symonds  and  Lane  and  a  few  fellows  round  to  a  little 
wine,  which  I  should  be  happy  to  have  you  join,  if 
you  have  no  more  tender  engagement  ? " 

"  Randolph,  let  up  on  that  sort  of  taffy.  What 
have  you  got  to  drink  ? " 

"Champagne  and  chambertin." 

"  Not  bad,  but  a  leetle  washy,  unless  you  mix  'em; " 
was  the  opening  speech  of  Brattle. 

"  O  come,  old  man,  put  fizz  into  good  chamber- 
tin,  you  know;  why,  dammit," — and  Bixby  took 
a  bumper  of  the  burgundy  by  way  of  steadying 
his  nerves — "that's  like  your  Boston  young  ones, 
though — 

"  If  your  object  is  to  get  drunk,  why  don't  you 
stick  to  Medford  rum,  which  is  cheap  and  expedi 
tious  ? "  grunted  Strang. 

"No,"  said  Randolph,  "by  all  means  let  us  get 
drunk  with  good  taste.  This  is  an  aesthetic  sym 
posium,  as  becomes  a  cultured  Harvard  man,  and 
not,  as  is  coarsely  expressed  in  the  police  reports 
of  the  daily  papers,  a  simple  drunk.  Mr.  Bixby,  I 
am  sorry  I  have  no  absinthe,  but  if  green  chartreuse 
is  strong  enough " 

"  Ho,  boys,  already  ahead  ? "  sang  out  Phil,  as 
he  surged  in  like  a  spring  tide.  "Sorry  I  can't 
join  you,  but  I'll  put  you  to  bed,  you  know.  I 
would,  if  it  weren't  so  thundering  near  the  race 
though." 


Il8  GUERNDALE. 

"  I'll  see  that  you  don't,  if  I'm  to  pull  seven,"  said 
Strang.  "  Sh  !  there  is  that  infernal  Hackett — I 
know  his  step." 

"Hush,"  said  Randolph,  "the  oak  is  sported  all 
right ;  he  can't  get  in  ;  and,  if  he  knocks,  we're  not  at 
home." 

All  were  silent,  and  sure  enough  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  No  one  answered.  Another  knock 
followed.  Amid  breathless  silence,  the  door,  to  their 
intense  astonishment,  slowly  opened,  and  Hackett 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  where  he  stood  in  some 
confusion.  A  roar  of  laughter  burst  from  the  room, 
only  Lane,  Guerndale,  and  their  host  retaining  their 
gravity. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Hackett,  we  thought  you 
were  the  proctor.  Will  you  not  join  us  ? "  said  Ran 
dolph,  suavely. 

The  effect  of  this  excuse  was  some\vhat  spoiled  by 
an  explosion  from  Bixby  ;  but  Hackett  appeared  not 
to  notice  it,  and  took  a  seat  rather  more  diffidently 
than  usual.  A  silence  followed. 

''Really,  fellows,  this  is  dull  as  an  examination  ;" 
said  Brattle.  "A  Rubicon  to  take  away  the 
chill ! " 

Randolph  took  an  immense  glass  tankard,  contain 
ing,  perhaps,  a  gallon,  which  he  filled  with  burgundy 
and  champagne,  and  passed  around.  Each  made  it 
a  point  of  honor  to  drink  as  long  as  he  could  at  a 
breath.  Lane  started,  drinking  delicately,  and  keep 
ing  his  eyes  in  the  glass.  Brattle  followed,  with  a 
tremendous  pull ;  Bixby  did  equally  well.  Guy  did 
not  like  the  mixture,  but  drank  it  calmly  ;  Strang 


GUERNDALE.  119 

and  Symonds  both  sipped  it  and  passed  it  on  to 
Hackett,  who  drank  noisily,  but,  as  Strang  noticed, 
very  little.  Randolph  received  it  back,  and  drank 
long  and  deeply,  which  had  little  effect  on  him,  ex 
cept  that  his  face  grew  paler  and  his  manner  even 
more  courteous  than  before.  The  party,  however, 
was  more  animated.  Story  succeeded  story ;  Phil 
Symonds  having  a  great  reputation  as  a  raconteur, 
while  Strang's  deep,  jovial  humor  floated  the  lighter 
ventures  of  Brattle  and  Van  Sittart.  Hackett  called 
for  a  song,  and  the  suggestion  "  came  home  to  him 
to  roost,"  as  Bixby  said.  So  Hackett  rose  and  sang, 
in  a  loud  and  somewhat  uncertain  voice,  a  ditty 
which,  though  a  good  example  of  the  lyrical  art  of 
the  day,  would  possibly  not  edify  us  if  transcribed  in 
full.  Relating  how  the  hero  was  the  drummer  of  a 
wide-awake  firm,  "and  ran  from  city  to  city,"  the 
fascinations  of  the  commercial  element  in  our  society 
were  expressed  in  the  statement  that 

"  Lou  lives  in  rooms,  with  a  little  brass  bell, 

And  her  mother  is  gone  to  the  workus, 
And  I  waltz  around  quite  the  Sunday  swell, 
On  a  Saturday  night  for  the  circus." 

Touching  slightly  on  the  catholic  tastes  of  the  drum 
mer  aforesaid,  as  shown  by  his  fondness  for  various 
young  ladies,  it  ended  by  giving  at  once  the  phi 
losophy  of  the  hero  and  the  moral  of  the  tale  : 

"And  when  women  are  false  and  biz  is  bad, 

I  wait,  like  a  saint,  until  Sunday, 
And  the  devil  take  the  girls,  I  say,  by  gad, 
As  I  get  blind  drunk  before  Monday.' 


I2O  GUERNDALE. 

"  Hooray,  Seth,  old  man  !  Good  enough  !  "  cried 
Bixby.  "  By  gad,  fellers,  that's  the  best  song  I'  ve 
heard  since  I  had  the  measles." 

Randolph  had  evidently  listened  with  some  dis 
gust.  "  Will  you  have  some  more  wine,  gentlemen  ?" 
said  he.  "Pass  the  glass  to  Mr.  Hackett,  Baker." 
Then,  turning  to  Guy,  "  The  sooner  we  get  that  fel 
low  drunk  the  better." 

Baker  was  an  English  groom,  who  made  one  of 
the  most  perfect  in- door  servants  I  ever  met.  I  once 
saw  Van  Sittart  drink  a  bottle-full  of  Worcestershire 
sauce,  and  then  throw  the  castor  at  Baker's  head  for 
giving  him  bad  wine,  and  that  invaluable  man  bore 
it  all  with  gravity  imperturbable. 

"  Send  around  the  Rubicon  again  ! "  shouted  Brat 
tle,  who  had  a  weak  head,  and  was  growing  rather 
uproarious  in  consequence.  "We  drink  like  Fresh 
men  to-night." 

A  second  time  the  bowl  was  passed  around.  Hack 
ett  drank  less  than  before.  Guy  was  growing  very 
gloomy,  and  drank  more.  Passed  back  to  Randolph, 
he  drank  long  and  deeply,  until  the  word  "  Rubi 
con  "  was  plainly  visible,  blown  in  the  bottom  of  the 
glass. 

" Hooray  !"  shouted  Brattle.  "Let  me  finish  it, 
old  boy  !  "  And  snatching  the  tankard,  he  drank  the 
half-pint  remaining.  This,  however,  finished  him, 
and  he  rose,  and,  staggering  to  the  door,  sought  the 
cooler  air  of  the  street.  No  one  seemed  to  notice 
his  departure  except  Randolph,  who  politely  escorted 
him  down  the  stairs,  and  returned  to  call  upon  Strang 
for  a  song. 


GUERNDALE.  121 

"  One  dead  man  already  ! "  cried  Phil  Symonds. 
"Well,  he  died  in  a  good  cause,  so  to  close  up  the 
ranks  !  Courage,  my  children  !  and  I  will  pipe  to 
you  what  John  would  call  a  Tyrtsean  ditty  !  " 
"  Shop  !  "  cried  Hackett,  "  fine  him  a  bumper." 
Symonds  took  no  notice  of  this  remark,  but  began 
in  a  full,  rich  baritone.  Phil  was  fond  of  careless, 
reckless  glees,  and  cared  more  for  the  spirit  than  the 
melody.  So  he  chose  that  song  of  the  British  soldiers 
in  India,  when  the  pestilence  was  upon  them,  and 
there  was  no  escape,  and  they  sat  carousing  over  their 
card-tables,  drinking  the  health  of  the  next  one  that 
died.  It  was  a  favorite  song  in  my  time  in  college  : 

"  For  God's  sake,  let  no  bells  be  ringing, 
Let  tinkling  glasses  be  my  prayer " 

With  the  refrain,  strengthened  by  much  pounding 
of  the  table  and  clinking  of  glasses  : 

"  Here's  to  the  dead  already, 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  !  " 

I  looked  musingly  about  our  table  as  he  sang,  and 
speculated  on  the  future  of  the  men  :  at  Randolph, 
grave,  with  his  habitual  half-smile,  impredicable,  in 
explicable  ;  at  Hackett,  Randolph's  antithesis,  long, 
sallow,  with  unkempt  hair,  and  keen,  furtive  eyes, 
pretentious  and  insinuating  of  manner,  though  loud 
of  speech  ;  at  simple,  jolly  Bixby  ;  Lane,  conven 
tional  and  polite  ;  handsome  Phil,  with  his  flushed 
face  and  superb  figure,  towering  above  us  as  he  sang  ; 
and  Guy,  thoughtful,  earnest,  reserved,  imaginative  ; 
fated  for  noble  things,  it  sometimes  would  seem  to 
6 


122  GUERNDALE. 

me.  Which  would  stay  longest  in  the  race  of  life  ? 
— Symonds,  Bixby,  Hackett  ? 

When  Phil  finished,  every  one  was  more  or  less  off, 
except,  always,  Guy  and  Randolph,  and  Hackett, 
who  was  not  nearly  so  drunk  as  he  pretended  to  be. 
Even  Lane,  the  quietest  of  men,  became  animated, 
and  we  suddenly  heard  his  voice  :  "  Szthe  diff'rence, 
fellers— 

"  Hooray  !  Shut  up,  boys,  Faucy's  got  a  story!" 
cried  Bixby.  "  Fire  away,  old  Blood-and-thun- 
der ! " 

Lane  was  usually  called  Blood-and-thunder  on  ac 
count  of  the  amenity  of  his  manners  and  the  calm  of 
his  deportment. 

"  I  say  !  "  began  Lane,  in  a  very  loud  voice,  which 
weakened  as  he  proceeded,  "  the  difference  between 
a  gentleman  and  a  cad  is,  that  when  a  cad  gets  drunk 
he  is  drunk,  and  when  a  gentleman  gets  drunk  no 
one  knows  anything  about  it." 

"Yer  don't  say!"  said  Bixby.  "Who  told  yer 
that  neaow  ? " 

Lane  turned  with  dignity  and  eyed  him  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  suddenly  altered  his  course  and  walked 
straight  and  erect  to  the  door.  "  Good-night,  gen 
tlemen,"  said  he. 

Randolph  bowed  politely.  Van  Sittart  threw  an 
olive  at  him,  which  hit  the  door  as  it  closed  rapidly, 
and,  immediately  after,  a  rumble  and  a  crash  in  the 
front  hall  assured  us  that  Lane  had  safely  fallen 
down-stairs. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  new  Toper's  Chorus, 
boys  ? "  said  Randolph. 


GUERNDALE.  123 

"  No,  No,"  was  the  cry  in  answer,  for  Norton  rarely 
consented  to  sing,  and,  when  he  did,  sang  well.  He 
poured  out  a  glass  of  brandy  in  a  slender  crystal 
tumbler,  which  bore  the  old  Randolph  crest  and 
motto  "  fortiter  !  "  and  stood  up  perfectly  self-pos 
sessed,  though  he  must  have  drunk  more  than  any 
two  men  in  the  room.  His  face  was  very  pale,  and 
his  eyes  somewhat  larger  than  usual  ;  but  his  hand 
was  as  firm  as  a  woman's. 

"It  was  written,"  said  he,  "by  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  had  a  very  liberal  education  and  a  large  fortune. 
I  believe  it  was  the  only  thing  he  ever  wrote,  and  he 
died  the  next  month.  It  is  a  very  jolly  song,  and  he 
wrote  it  just  before  he  shot  himself." 


Ye  men  that  have  a  sense  of  things, 

Now  senseless  evermore  ; 
Or  have,  as  poor  old  Dante  sings — 

Intelletto  d'amor' — 
Come,  drink  with  me — the  toast  I  vow 

Will  take  you  well,  I  ween. 
I  drink  to  things  that  are  not  now, 

If  they  have  ever  been. 

I  drink  to  right,  I  drink  to  wrong, 

I  drink  to  good  we  seek  ; 
I  drink  to  mercy  in  the  strong, 

To  courage  in  the  weak  ; 
I  drink  to  life,  I  drink  to  death, 

I  drink  to  things  forbann'd  ; 
I  drink  to  hope,  I  drink  to  faith, 

I  drink  unto  the  damned. 

I  leave  the  hell  we  know  so  well, 
To  toast  the  heaven  o'er  us  ; 

I  toast  the  life  that  bibles  tell— 
And  happiness  before  us. 


124  GUERNDALE. 

The  fair  true  maiden  whom  we  love 

Or  shall  love,  when  we  see  one — 
I  toast  the  love  that  reigns  above, 

And  God,  if  so  there  be  one. 

I  drink  to  worlds  that  are  to  be, 

I  drink  to  truth  and  beauty — 
I  toast  all  things  we  cannot  see — 

I  drink  to  life  and  duty — 
All  things  that  we  have  never  found, 

Both  human  and  divine, 
We  jolly  topers  !    Drink  around  ! 

We'll  find  them — in  the  wine  ! 

Little  attention  was  paid  to  the  song.  Such  men 
as  had  their  senses  left  did  not  like  it.  "  O,  dammit, 
I  say,"  began  Bixby. 

"  Why  do  you  object — because  of  the  sentiment  ? " 
laughed  Randolph.  "  My  boy,  this  song,  at  least,  is 
not  vulgar,  like  Hackett's.  Moreover,  '  les  chants 
desesperes  sont  les  chants  les  plus  beaux.'  " 

Guy  was  leaning  his  head  in  his  hand,  saying  noth 
ing.  It  was  three  in  the  morning  ;  Strang  and  Ran 
dolph  helped  Van  Sittart  and  Bixby  home  ;  Phil  went 
back  with  Guy. 

Randolph  did  not  return  to  his  room  ;  but  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  night  in  a  distant  walk  over  the 
country  hills,  alone,  smoking  many  cigars.  As  he 
returned,  the  college  bell  was  ringing  for  morning 
prayers.  Randolph  had  an  excuse  from  prayers  on 
account  of  an  unhealthy  influence  the  family  doctor 
had  discovered  for  him  in  the  morning  air  ;  so  he  did 
not  stop,  but  went  to  his  room,  which  was  foul  with 
ashes  and  tobacco  smoke,  and  littered  with  over 
turned  empty  bottles  and  broken  glasses. 


GUERNDALE.  12$ 

He  took  the  first  horse-car  for  the  city,  and  passed 
the  morning  walking  through  the  hospitals,  and  talk 
ing  with  such  of  the  poorest  patients  as  interested 
him.  Rather  a  curious  occupation  for  Norton  Ran 
dolph — we  would  have  thought,  had  we  known  it  in 
those  days. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  L'honneur — c'est  la  poesie  du  devoir." — A.  DE  VIGNY. 

IT  was  in  the  middle  of  the  annual  examinations. 
At  Cambridge,  these  trials,  coming  with  the 
canker-worms,  occupy  the  better  part  of  June.  The 
day  was  warm;  and  about  three  in  the  afternoon  of 
that  twelfth  or  fourteenth  of  the  month  (I  remember 
the  date,  for  a  staple  of  conversation  that  day  con 
sisted  in  cursing  the  Faculty  for  not  "letting  up" 
on  examinations  for  the  seventeenth),  a  somewhat 
picturesque  group  might  have  been  seen  assembled 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  "yard,"  the  part  which  the 
grave  and  reverend  seniors  most  affected.  We  had 
struck  all  work  some  days  before  (out  of  respect  for 
the  examinations);  and  our  chief  occupation,  when 
not  undergoing  that  torture,  was  to  lie  on  our  backs 
in  the  grass,  with  our  heels  in  the  air,  and  smoke 
cigarettes.  University  air,  in  midsummer,  is  condu 
cive  to  scholastic  repose.  ' 

This  circle  of  promising  youths  was  then  disposed 
in  a  variety  of  attitudes  under  the  elm  trees.  Most 
of  us  were  lying  on  cushions  brought  from  neigh 
boring  window-seats;  the  costumes  ranged  from  the 
recherche  velveteen  shooting-coat,  through  knicker- 


GUERNDALE.  I2/ 

bockers,  and  Norfolk  jackets,  and  white  flannels,  to 
the  normal  costume  of  the  American  citizen.  The 
circle  was  surrounded  by  a  somewhat  turbulent  com 
pany  of  bull-pups,  in  assorted  sizes,  of  the  most  ugly 
varieties.  The  peace  of  the  hour  was  only  disturbed 
by  the  occasional  passage  of  a  carriage  more  stylish 
than  usual  through  the  quadrangle,  or  the  descent  of 
a  canker-worm,  depending  from  his  swayirfg  skein, 
upon  the  face  of  one  of  the  smokers. 

"Yes,"  said  Phil,  "I  think  they  might  at  least 
shut  up  their  old  mill  on  the  seventeenth  of  June." 

"What  is  the  seventeenth  of  June,  anyhow?"  de 
manded  Bixby. 

"Some  event  in  biblical  history,  I  believe,"  said 
Randolph  drily.  "Ask  Van  Sittart;  he  is  under  the 
impression  that  the  Mayflower  was  the  first  Curiarder 
that  came  into  Boston  harbor." 

"What's  in  you,  old  Ineffable?"  cried  Phil.  "I 
think  you  are  even  lazier  than  usual." 

"I  am  reflecting,"  said  Randolph,  gravely,  "whe 
ther  the  pleasure  of  cutting  my  examination  and 
lying  here  to  smoke  cigarettes  in  your  charming 
company  will  make  up  for  the  pain  of  being  'con 
ditioned'  in  Athenian  Art." 

"Conditioned"  means,  or  used  to  mean  when  we 
were  in  Cambridge,  being  "plucked,"  "ploughed," 
"pulled,"  "slung,"  or  any  other  euphemism  for  be 
ing  rejected  at  an  examination.  It  was  possible  to 
remove  a  "condition"  by  a  second  trial;  otherwise 
it  hung  over  one's  head  indefinitely  to  prevent  tak 
ing  a  degree.  Men  were  known  in  this  way  to  ac 
cumulate  as  many  as  twenty  by  their  senior  year. 


128  GUERNDALE. 

Randolph  had  quite  a  rolling  snowball  of  them;  in 
fact,  I  believe  a  "  condition  "  in  Greek  composition 
had  prevented  his  ever  getting  any  "matriculation" 
or  entrance  papers.  He  had  a  certain,  calm  faith  that, 
some  time  or  other,  they  would  give  him  a  degree,  if 
he  wanted  it.  Besides,  he  had  once  passed  an  ex 
amination  (on  a  bet) ;  and  at  another  time  had  aston 
ished  a  pfofessor  into  giving  him  ninety  per  cent,  by 
out-arguing  him  on  an  economical  question.  This 
latter  marvel  he  celebrated  by  a  grand  dinner  at 
Taft's — an  inn  by  the  side  of  the  sea  we  much  fre 
quented — by  reason  of  which  dinner,  two  of  our  party 
were  suspended;  so  that  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
the  final  fruits  of  Randolph's  scholastic  exploit  were 
good  or  evil.  I  wonder  whether  old  Taft's  is  still 
running !  Your  dinners  were  good,  old  man,  al 
though  your  turbot  was  chicken-halibut,  and  your 
wines  dear  and  sweet.  But  it  is  far  I  would  go  for 
one  of  them,  out  here  in  Arizona. 

"  Hello!  Hackett,  my  accidental — I  mean  occiden 
tal — Demosthenes,  what's  the  news  ? "  sang  Strang. 
"Are  you  well  up  in  making  the  worse  appear  the 
better  reason  ? "  Hackett  was  our  class-orator. 

"  How  much  of  an  ear-ache  are  you  going  to  give 
us,  Class-day  ?  "  queried  Van  Sittart. 

"  Hope  there's  nothing  in  your  jokes  to  call  a 
blush  to  the  cheek  of  the  most  fastidious  et  cetera 
and  so  forth  ? "  laughed  Phil.  "  Remember  the  dear 
little  girls." 

"Better  take  a  tub  and  file  your  finger-nails," 
sneered  Van  Sittart  again,  rudely. 

"Talk  lower,  or  he'll  hear,"  whispered  Guy. 


GUERNDALE.  129 

"What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Whose 
"blank  business — 

"  Oh  dry  up,  you  two,  it's  too  hot  to  fight,"  cried 
P'hil.  Guy's  fac.e  had  flushed  up,  and  Phil's  bluff, 
good-natured  tones  came  just  in  time.  Hackett 
seemed  not  to  hear  all  this,  but  took  a  seat  next 
Randolph,  who  liked  him  least  of  all,  and  yet,  with 
the  exception  of  Guy,  treated  him  most  politely. 

" Heard  the  news,  boys?  Strang  and  Guerndale 
have  got  honors — Science  and  Philosophy." 

A  prolonged  yell  of  approbation  greeted  this  an 
nouncement,  with  much  clapping  of  hands.  This 
caused  several  windows  to  be  opened  in  various 
parts  of  the  quadrangle,  whence  the  occupants  pro 
truded  their  heads,  with  shouts  of  "  more  ! "  "mo-a- 
ah  !  "  pronounced  in  the  most  grotesque  and  elabor 
ate  falsetto.  After  looking  up  and  down,  and  across, 
and  observing  that  the  excitement  was  caused  by 
neither  a  pretty  girl  nor  a  dog-fight,  the  windows 
were  closed,  and  the  occupants  thereof  returned  in 
some  disappointment  to  their  studies.  A  peripatetic 
proctor  said, 

"  Less  noise,  gentlemen  !  " 

"  Oh,  go  to  blazes  !  "  cried  Bixby. 

"  You're  dished,  poor  boy,"  said  Phil.  "  I  saw  a 
wicked  look  in  his  eye." 

"Well,"  said  Bixby,  "  I  guess  another  one  won't 
hurt  me.  Chance  it,  I'm  all  up,  anyhow." 

"Young  men  :  In  the  face  of  this  most  wondrous 

and  passing  strange  occurrence  which  has  happened 

to  two  of  our  company,  it  behoveth  us  to  accept  the 

gifts  of  the  gods  with  a  fitting  reverence,  and  that 

6* 


130  GUERNDALE. 

those  upon  whom  this  rain  of  honors  comes  should 
show  themselves  truly  grateful.  Wherefore,  let  us 
dine  at  my  expense — and  credit."  So  spoke  Strang, 
the  eupeptic,  if  impecunious.  "  But,  Hackett,  where 
are  you,  this  day  of  glory  ?  " 

"Oh,"  replied  the  orator,  with  elaborate  careless 
ness,  "  I  got  double  honors." 

"Congratulate  you.  Well,  Brattle  ?  Lane  ?  Phil  ? 
Randolph  ?  Guy  ?  We  start  at  six.  All  agreed  ? 
You'll  come,  Bixby  ? " 

Whether  Hackett  was  purposely  omitted  in  this 
invitation,  I  do  not  know.  But  he  seemed  provoked, 
and  added,  with  malicious  pleasure  :  "  And  Mr. 
Bixby  is  quite  right.  His  degree  is  thought  very 
doubtful." 

"What?  Billy  Bixby  lose  his  degree?  By  Jove  ! 
Too  devilish  bad,  old  fellow  !  "  Quite  a  chorus  of 
sympathy.  Then  we  all  looked  to  see  how  he  would 
take  it.  A  moment  of  breathless  silence  followed. 
Bixby's  command  of  terse  Saxon  execration  was 
known  to  be  boundless.  Several  windows  in  the  quad 
rangle  were  again  opened.  The  inmates  of  Holworthy 
leaned  out  as  one  man.  He  began  feebly,  Avith  a  "  d." 
Then  he  changed  his  formula.  "  The  Faculty  may — 
may  go  to — may — oh,  lord " 

"  Wait  till  dinner,  Billy,"  put  in  Randolph,  sooth 
ingly. 

Ah  !  how  well  I  remember  that  dinner.  What  a 
parcel  of  precious  young  fools  we  were  !  The  cere 
monies  were  opened  by  Bixby,  who  rose  gravely  and 
read  from  a  paper,  in  all  dignity,  and,  in  solemn  em 
phasis,  the  following  toast : 


GUERNDALE.  131 

"  By  the  Sentence  of  the  Angels,  by  the  Decree  of 
the  Saints, we  anathematize,  cut  off,  curse,  and  exe 
crate  the  Faculty  of  Harvard  College,  with  the  Pre 
sident,  Proctors,  and  Parietal  Committee  thereof. 
In  the  presence  of  these  sacred  books,  with  the  six 
hundred  and  thirteen  precepts  which  are  written 
therein  ;  with  the  r.uathema  wherewith  Joshua  an 
athematized  Jericho  ;  with  the  cursing  wherewith 
Elisha  cursed  the  children,  and  with  all  the  curses 
which  are  written  in  the  Book  of  the  Law  :  Cursed 
be  they  by  day,  and  cursed  by  night ;  cursed  when 
they  lie  down,  and  cursed  when  they  rise  up  ;  cursed 
when  they  go  out,  and  cursed  when  they  come  in. 
The  Lord  pardon  them  never.  The  wrath  and  fury 
of  the  Lord  burn  upon  these  men  and  bring  upon 
them  all  the  curses  which  are  written  in  the  Book  of 
the  Law.  The  Lord  blot  out  their  names  under 
Heaven.  The  Lord  set  them  apart  for  destruction 
from  all  the  tribes  of  Israel,  with  all  the  curses  of 
the  firmament  which  are  written  in  the  book  of  the 
Law.  There  shall  no  man  speak  to  them  ;  no  man 
write  to  them  ;  no  man  show  them  any  kindness  ;  no 
man  stay  under  the  same  roof  with  them  ;  no  man  go 
nigh  them.  Thank  you,  old  man,"  said  Bixby,  when 
he  had  finished,  to  Randolph,  "you  are  very  kind." 
And  he  drank  a  glass  of  wine  Avith  much  satisfac 
tion. 

"Yes,"  said  Randolph,  "I  think  it  is  a  neat  ex 
ample  of  a  quiet  family  curse — illustrative  of  the 
amenity  of  sectarian  manners.  The  Jews  applied  it 
to  Spinoza." 

But  I  do  not  remember  the  dinner  so  much  as  a 


132  GUERNDALE. 

talk  we  had  afterward  ;  though  I  believe  the  grub 
was  good.  I  had  gone  in  for  grind  that  year,  and 
had  given  up  the  crew  ;  but  Phil  was  still  stroke,  and 
had  to  cut  the  dinner  on  that  account.  Bixby  and 
Brattle  wrere  a  bit  sprung  coming  home,  so  we  put 
them  with  Lane,  as  the  quietest  man  to  drive  them, 
while  we  came  back  in  the  other  carriage. 

"  Str'ang,"  said  Guy,  "why  did  you  ask  us  all  to 
dinner  before  Hackett  and  Van  Sittart,  and  leave 
them  out  ?  They  must  have  been  quite  hurt." 

"Why,  hang  it,  young  'un,"  shouted  John,  "you 
had'just  had  a  row  with  the  man  yourself,  and  he 
treated  you  like  a  pickpocket !  I  can't  stand  either 
of  those  men  ;  I've  stood  'em  for  four  years,  and  now 
we're  graduates,  and  I've  had  enough  of  them." 

"  There's  something  fine  about  Hackett,  after  all," 
said  Guy  musingly.  "  Energy,  purpose — I  wonder 
wrhat  he'll  do  in  the  world." 

"Become  President  of  the  United  States,  prob 
ably,"  said  Randolph.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
yourself  ? " 

Then,  I  remember,  bit  by  bit,  and  phrase  by  phrase  ; 
as  we  grew  more  confidential,  Guy  told  us  of  his 
thoughts  and  aims,  much  as  I  have  tried  to  sketch 
them  in  this  book.  How  he  had  been  lonely  and  shy, 
and  then  ambitious  and  desirous  of  the  world  ;  how 
he  had  come  to  college  with  all  sorts  of  fervent  theo 
ries  and  immature  plans.  "  But  now,  I  don't  know. 
Somehow  or  other,  at  this  time,  something  seems  un 
certain  and  most  things  trivial.  I  doubt,  after  all, 
whether  all  progress — in  any  direction — is  necessarily 
a  good  thing.  And  shouldering  the  wheel  backward 


GUERNDALE.  133 

is  an  ungrateful  sort  of  task.  Conservatives  are  al 
ways  at  a  disadvantage.  As  Billy  Bixby  says,  '  let 
it  spoil  and  get  a  fresh  one.'  ' 

"Ah!  that's  it,"  smiled  Randolph,  ''the  sooner 
things  burst,  the  sooner  we  can  set  them  up  again." 

"  But  I  am  not  such  a  poco-curante  as  the  mild- 
eyed  here,"  laughed  Guy,  "  and  it  grinds  me." 

Guy  had  one  peculiarity  which  I  long  ago  dis 
covered.  He  rarely  talked  slangily  or  flippantly,  but 
when  he  did,  he  was  always  deeply  in  earnest.  He 
had  a  horror  of  a  scene,  and  a  great  fear  of  "  posing." 

"No,"  he  continued,  "  I  believe  in  doing,  still  in 
doing,  if  you  know  not  why,  or  what  you  do.  This 
Weltschmerz  nonsense  is  nothing  more  than  a  sort 
of  world-dyspepsia.  We  are  weak,  and  life  is  too 
strong  a  food  for  some  of  us.  I  should  be  just  as 
ashamed  of  giving  in  to  it  as  I  should  of  being  mel 
ancholy  and  misanthropic  because  my  dinner  was  too 
much  for  my  stomach.  Exercise  is  the  remedy  for 
dyspepsia  ;  so  occupation  for  Weltschmerz.  There 
are  plenty  of  worthy  things  now-a-days.  And  neither 
are  these  necessarily  in  what  you  call  the  Philistin 
ism  of  science,  or  in  what  Strang  calls  the  affected 
in -doors  twaddle  of  culture  and  art.  Look  at  the  last 
six  or  seven  years  of  history — our  war,  for  instance." 

"  Guy,  my  boy,  you  are  beginning  to  talk  serious 
ly,  and  I  do  not  believe  you  more  than  half  believe 
what  you  say."  Randolph,  too,  had  evidently  found 
out  Guy's  ways. 

"  I  do,"  said  Guy.      "  It  was  great  as  the  Iliad." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  Trojans  at  least  had  a  woman 
in  the  case  to  lend  it  human  interest.  No,  but  seri- 


134  GUERNDALE. 

ously,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  "if  you  had  been  ac 
tually  in  the  ranks,  passe  encore.  But  we  are  coming 
to  a  time  of  reaction,  corruption,  low  ideals,  vulgar 
competition,  general  disillusion.  You  are  too  late, 
my  boy,  '  Tout  cst  penst,  tout  est  dit,  tout  est  fait.' " 
And  Randolph  relapsed  into  a  grin. 

"Stuff,"  replied  Guy.  "Excuse  me,  Norton,  but 
the  same  man  who  said  that  gave  the  anti-phrase  : 
'Everything  is  old,  and  everything  is  new.'  What  is 
noble  and  good  can  bear  repetition.  '  C 'est  imiter 
quelqu'un  que  de planter  des  choux.'  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  chosen  an  unfair  ex 
ample.  Planting  cabbages  is  one  of  the  few  thor 
oughly  worthy  occupations  that  remain  to  mankind." 

"  Look  here,  you  fellows,  I  am  going  to  talk  a  little 
romantic  nonsense.  Norton,  you,  at  least,  believe 
in  honor,  do  you  not  ?  And  honor  is  but  a  finer, 
more  imaginative,  form  of  duty.  If  this  life  is  all  un 
worthy,  we  can  at  least  live  it  worthily.  I  started 
with  a  definite  purpose.  I  meant  to  lead  an  ambi 
tious,  active  life.  And  I,  too,  have  been  discour 
aged.  Definite  faith,  to  me  as  well,  is  an  impos 
sibility.  But  life,  the  progress  of  a  life,  is  like 
ascending  a  mountain.  In  the  early  morning,  when 
we  start,  we  see  the  glorious  peak,  the  first  ideal  of 
youth,  full  in  front,  fair  in  the  sun.  Then  comes  the 
haze  of  mid-day  ;  foot-hills,  forests,  dark  valleys  come 
between  ;  clouds  veil  the  summit.  Never,  perhaps, 
in  this  life  do  we  see  the  final  height  again.  We 
only  now  can  see  the  poor  little  ridge  before  us, 
scarce  worth  our  climbing.  But  if  we  bravely  follow 
the  first  ideal,  keeping  it  in  mind,  always  ascending 


GUERNDALE.  135 

ridge  after  ridge — that  is  duty.  For  what  is  a  great 
life  but  the  dreams  of  youth  realized  in  riper  age  ? 
And  so,  only  assuring  ourselves  that  we  are  still 
ascending,  we  shall  some  time  reach  the  final  height, 
as  sure  as  God  lives." 

"As  sure  as  God  lives, — perhaps." 

"  '  Ein  Gott  lebt — lasst  eucJi  nicht  irren  des  Pobcls 
Gesc/irei!'  And  it  is  right  to  have  ideals;  and 
youth  is  the  time  for  them.  Thought  is  given  men 
to  remind  them  that  there  is  truth  immortal  ;  and 
beauty,  music,  poetry,  love,  ray  through  this  life's 
clouds  like  a  bow,  to  make  men  mindful  of  things 
that  in  this  life  we  never  find  ;  dreams  they  are  now, 
but  dreams  that  are  truer  than  the  truth  that  here 
we  know.  And  so  I  hold  that  our  ideal  may  be  more 
reai  than  this  world's  reality.  And  when  we  reach 
it,  be  it  with  this  life  or  the  millionth  life  after  this, 
though  each  little  stage  seems  final  death,  as  each 
mountain  spur  looks  to  us  the  last — though  each 
little  stage  is  taken  with  no  memory  of  the  last — 
when  we  reach  the  final  height,  the  mists  will  drop 
away,  and  the  weary  wanderings  of  all  our  lives  will 
lie  far  down  below  us,  like  a  distant  view.  And  we 
shall  reach  it,  though  it  be  beyond  the  realms  of  time 
and  space,  above  the  so-called  laws  of  mortal  science, 
cause,  and  will,  and  soulless  matter.  '  Hoch  ilber  all,' 
as  Schiller  says." 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Randolph. 

Guy  gave  a  shrug  of  displeasure. 

"  Guy,"  said  Randolph  seriously,  "  do  you  suppose 
any  one  around  you  lives  with  an  ideal  like  that  ? 
You  might  as  well  seek  to  steer  by  the  stars  of 


136  GUERNDALE. 

heaven  through  the  Erie  Canal.  Those  commod 
ities  are  worthy  which  have  exchangeable  value — • 
not  intrinsic,  mind,  but  exchangeable  value.  This 
alone  is  real  ;  and,  when  we  leave  our  main  business, 
we  moderns  do  not  want  ideals,  but  amusements. 
We  live  from  day  to  day,  not  from  day  to  eternity  ; 
we  work  a  day's  work  for  bread,  dress-coats,  brown- 
stone  fronts,  and  cigars  ;  our  day's  work  done,  we 
want  circuses.  Bread  and  circuses  ;  get  them  !  Why 
lay  up  treasures  in  heaven  ?  We'll  never  see  them 
again.  Be  smart,  wide-awake,  go  ahead,  pushing,  a 
live  man,  as  they  say  in  the  business  advertisements. 
And  pushing  does  not  mean  climbing — but  elbow 
ing  one  another  down." 

"  But  even  this  life  lets  in  desire  for  fame,  renown  ; 
what  is  a  desire  for  immortality  but  a  wish  to  live 
beyond  this  world  ? " 

"  Men  no  longer  want  that.  They  want  the  adula 
tion  of  their  contemporaries.  Why  should  we  do 
anything  for  posterity  ?  Posterity  never  did  any 
thing  for  us.  Men  want  flattery — after  the  comforts 
of  life  are  obtained,  we  all  like  to  be  envied  by  our 
fellow-cits.  Social  success  is  more  prized  than  im 
mortality.  Immortality  !  What  is  it  after  all  ?  Who 
wants  it  ?  Who  first  thought  of  it  ?  Heine  says, 
'some  fat,  comfortable  burgher  sitting,  some  soft 
spring  evening,  before  the  door  of  his  comfortable 
little  house,  with  his  long  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
who  thought  how  nice  it  would  be  so  to  go  on  veg 
etating  into  eternity  without  letting  his  pipe  go  out ' 
— or  perhaps  some  young  lover — bah!  Love,  im 
mortality — what  nonsense  we  are  talking  !  " 


GUERNDALE/  137 

"Norton,"  said  Guy  earnestly,  "do  you  know  our 
old  family  motto  ?  It  is,  '  Seule  la  mort  peut  nous 
vaincre.'  It  is  a  fine  old  phrase  and  I  mean  to  be 
true  to  it.  And  death  itself  does  not  kill  one's  char 
acter,  one's  children,  one's  works,  one's  fame." 

"  If  character  is  merely  doing,  you  might  emu 
late  the  piston-rod  of  a  steam-engine.  But,  of 
course,  if  you  wish  to  perpetuate  your  family — make 
several  fools  live  where  only  one  lived  before — or 
are  so  content  with  yourself  that  you  wish  to  project 

your  little  individuality  beyond  your  natural  life 

As  for  works,  the  world  is  quite  content  with  itself, 
and  won't  let  you  tinker  it  up.  Men  are  extremely 
comfortable.  Look  at  that  row  of  '  genteel  suburban 
residences  ! '  The  very  slope  of  their  French  roofs 
suggests  a  tawdrily  dressed  girl  over  the  piano  in 
the  front  parlor,  her  '  young  man '  expected  in  the 
evening,  mother  in  the  kitchen  making  bad  pies 
and  doing  all  the  other  work  her  daughter  is  too 
fine  to  do  ;  a  vulgar  and  overworked  father  with  a 
deficiency  in  his  accounts,  mural  decoration  of  shells 
and  autumn  leaves,  and  '  God  Bless  our  Home  ! '  in 
red  and  blue  chromo  over  the  mantel-piece." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "why  is  not  this  a  very  fine  state 
of  things  ?  If  Henry  IV.  was  right  in  wishing  eveiy 
peasant  in  France  to  have  a  fowl  in  his  pot  of  a 
Sunday,  why  are  we  not  glad  that  each  citizen  has 
a  house,  though  it  be  ugly,  and  a  piano,  and  a  rib 
bon  for  his  daughter — even  if  they  do  prefer  chro- 
mos  to  etchings  and  burlesques  to  Shakespeare  ? " 

"  It  is  a  very  fine  state  of  things.  That  is  just  it. 
They  are  perfectly  comfortable  and  don't  wish  to  be 


138  GUERNDALE. 

altered  ;  and  here  Guy  comes  and  makes  a  pother 
about  ideals,  and  ultra-mundane  aims,  and  beauty, 
and  honor  and  all  that.  Their  preference  for  bur-- 
lesques  shows  how  they  would  treat  him.  We  bur 
lesque  everything  now  ;  in 'politics,  social  life,  taste, 
literature,  even  religion.  What  are  Beaconsfield, 
Spurgeon,  Beecher,  but  bouffe  ?  I  myself  am  a  part 
of  it.  I,  too,  burlesque  everything  ;  I  even  burlesque 
the  cynic  ;  and  am  only  half  earnest  in  my  cynicism." 
"You  certainly  do — I  will  not,"  said  Guy.  "  You 
know  I  told  you  the  story  of  that  old  murder  about 
the  diamond.  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  believe  that 
my  great-great-grandfather  was  first  attacked,  and 
that  Simmons,  his  old  servants  say,  was  false  and 
tried  to  rob  it  from  him." 

"  Was  not  Symonds  one  of  Phil's  people  ?" 
"I  believe  so.     A  great-great  uncle,  I  think." 
"Why,  I  thought  the  Symonds  were  great  swells," 
said  Strang. 

"  There  are  no  swells  any  more,"  said  Randolph. 
"  Only  snobs.  There  are  not  a  dozen  pre-revolution- 
ary  families  in  American  society.  Everybody's  grand 
father  was  a  peasant,  or  an  innkeeper,  or  a  grocer, 
or  a  fisherman,  or  a  soap-boiler,  or  a  barber,  or  a 
cobbler.  So  much  the  better  for  their  descendants. 
But  go  on,  Guy." 

"Well,"  said  Guy,  "you  may  laugh;  but  in  all 
seriousness  I  resolved  that  I  would  keep  that  dia 
mond  always.  There  was  an  old  superstition  that 
our  family  would  never  be  happy  until  we  parted 
with  it.  One  of  my  childish  ambitions  was  to  prove 
that  it  was  rightfully  acquired,  and  all  the  old  scan- 


GUERNDALE.  139 

jdal  a  lie.  I  would  meet  the  world,  and  conquer  it ; 
'land  show  the  diamond  when  I  had  got  back  all  we 
J  lost.  This  was  my  first  childish  dream.  Not  a  very 
I  noble  one,  and  rather  silly,  I  suppose.  Still,  'seule 
I  la  mort  peut  nous  vaincre.'  " 

I  was  amused  at  this  queer  little  streak  of  romance 
In  Guy's  character.  But  the  reader  must  remember 
that  all  this  talk  was  after  dinner ;  and  we  were  driv 
ing  in  the  evening  along  the  sea,  and  we  were  very 
young  in  those  days,  after  all. 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  this  remark  of  Guy's. 
The  black  outline  of  the  city  lay  across  the  water ; 
the  blue  hills  to  the  south  had  an  ashen  sheen  be 
neath  the  summer  moon.  Behind  the  domes  and 
spires  was  a  great  glare  of  yellow  sunset,  with  bars 
of  ruby  clouds. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful  ? "  said  Guy. 
•  After  another  silence,  Randolph  spoke.  "  It  looks 
like  an  omelette  aux  confitures,"  said  he.  "Guy, 
my  boy,  when  you  reach  the  seventh  heaven  you 
speak  of,  I  hope  you  will  call  the  attention  of  the 
authorities  up  there  to  the  bad  taste  of  our  American 
sunsets." 

On  that  same  thirteenth  of  June  two  people  were 
sitting  at  a  late  dinner  in  the  coffee-room  of  the 
Royal  Hotel,  at  Oban.  They,  too,  were  looking  at 
the  sunset  ;  and  the  myriad  faint  hues  of  the  heather 
and  the  northern  sea  were  deepening  slowly  into 
night.  "Yes,  Annie,"  Mr.  Bonnymort  was  saying, 
"  I  think  it  is  time  for  us  to  go  home.  I  have  taken 
passage  in  the  Scotia  for  the  last  of  the  month.  You 


I4O  GUERNDALE. 

see,  we  have  been  away  seven  years,  and  it  is  time 
you  should  go  into  company.  We  can  go  up  to  Dale, 
this  summer  ;  and  you  must  rest  and  gain  strength 
for  the  autumn.  But  do  you  not  wish  to  go,  little 
girl  ? " 

"Yes,  if  you  wish,  Papa,"  said  the  girl.  "  But  I 
do  not  wish  to  lose  you." 

"My  child,  you  will  see  more  of  me  than  ever.  I 
shall  have  to  act  as  your  duenna.  Heigho  !  I  wonder 
whether  little  Boston  has  changed  much  since  my 
time  ?  I  fear  I  am  of  the  old  school  now." 

"  What  has  become  of  Guy,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  to  College,  and  is  doing  well,  I  be 
lieve.  He  used  to  be  a  nice  boy — but  something  like 
his  father." 

So  it  was  decided  that  the  Bonnymorts  were  to  re 
turn  home. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

"  Instruction  superieure  serieuse." — RENAN. 
"  Qui  est-ce  qu'  on  trompe  ici  ?  " — FIGARO. 

COMMENCEMENT  day  at  Cambridge.  It  no 
V_x  longer  caused  the  stir  and  excitement  of  yore 
in  the  country  round  about,  when  the  Muddy  River 
roads  were  filled  with  a  procession  of  carriages  roll 
ing  out  by  the  wide  estuary  of  the  Charles  ;  when  the 
Cambridge  Commons  were  crowded  with  booths  of 
hucksters,  merry-go-rounds,  and  cheap  jacks  ;  when 
the  provincial  clergy  and  gentry  drove  solemnly  out, 
behind  their  powdered  negro  coachmen,  in  chariots 
or  "  carrying-chairs,"  belozenged  or  emblazoned  with 
the  arms  known  to  Salem,  to  Portsmouth,  and  the 
old  coast  towns  now  decayed.  Then,  even  the  sailors 
on  the  ships  at  the  foot  of  Queen  Street  had  a  holi 
day,  and  rolled  out  to  see  the  young  senior  sophis- 
tors  receive  their  degrees,  and  fuddled  themselves 
over  black  strap  and  other  allurements  in  the  pro 
cess.  Now,  the  extra-collegiate  world  troubles  itself 
little  over  the  great  event  ;  and  the  two  or  three  hun 
dred  young  bachelors  flung  upon  the  world  scarce 
cause  a  ripple  as  they  sink  in  the  sea  of  commerce 
and  craft,  where  few — alas  ! — are  to  reappear  on  the 
surface.  The  little  leaven  of  our  so-called  great  uni- 


142  GUERNDALE. 

versitics  is  hardly  felt  in  the  national  yeast,  which 
patent  baking-powder  froths  and  scums  the  mess  up 
into  half  baked  results  much  the  same. 

Not  so,  however,  think  the  fair  sisters  and  cou 
sins  of  these  young  fellows,  as  they  flock  in  ribbons 
and  furbelows  to  the  dusky  red  halls,  and  listen  in 
unappreciative  admiration  to  the  dissertations  and 
disquisitions,  hearing  with  much  the  same  feelings  a 
declamation  on  Italian  Poetry  and  an  exposition  of 
the  Nebular  Hypothesis.  But  it  happens,  by  some 
strange  chance,  that  the  most  charming  of  these 
visitors  usually  find  their  brothers  dolce  faciendi  niente 
on  the  lazy  sward  of  Holworthy.  For  eleemosynary 
are  the  systems  that  govern  the  old  college;  and 
scholarships  and  collegiate  honors  and  fellowships 
are  like  the  needle's  eye  to  the  rich.  "  Let  him  work 
who  must "  is  the  principle  ;  which  the  lazier  fellows 
are  only  too  ready  to  take  advantage  of. 

In  the  great  College  Hall  the  triple-headed  ccr- 
beri,  the  men  of  marks  and  honors,  the  future  clergy 
and  magistry,  have  been  holding  forth  to  an  audience 
sleepy  in  the  heat.  Behind  them  are  the  gowned 
professors  ;  below  the  three  books  on  a  field  gules  of 
Harvard,  bearing  the  motto  "  veritas  !"  But,  .up  in 
the  college  yard,  prone  upon  the  grass,  lay  such  of  our 
friends  as  had,  in  college,  sought  "veritas  in  vino" 
only.  For  Guy  had  fallen  among  a  precious  lot  of 
scapegraces,  I  fear.  Most  of  his  friends  were  only 
sent  to  college  to  learn  to  be  gentlemen  ;  and  they 
began  by  learning  how  to  do  nothing  gracefully,  and 
perhaps  some  never  got  beyond  these  rudiments. 

However,  if  in   those  days  we  were  only  artistic 


GUERNDALE.  143 

loafers,  we  have  not  all  done  so  badly  since;  and  even 
then  there  was  plenty  of  honest  work.  Some  were 
there, -men  of  marks  and  men  of  mark;  for  there  is  a 
class  between  Philistia  and  the  Lotus-land,  after  all. 
Hackett  —  that  angel  of  intercourse  between  the 
powers  that  be  and  Cockaigne  —  appeared,  with  a 
budget  of  news,  as  usual.  "Strang,  old  man,  I  am 
sorry  to  say " 

"Ah,  I  know,"  said  John.      "Don't  bother." 

"You  have  lost  your  degree,"  ended  Hackett. 

"  T/ie  devil,"  cried  Phil.  "What,  Strang,  the 
blameless,  the  hard-headed,  the  sprouting  Tele- 
machus — Why,  in  the  name  of  the  powers  behind 
the  Dean  !  I  thought  you  were  in  the  first  ten,  or 
some  such  atrocity  ! " 

"I  was,"  said  Strang;  "and  they  assigned  me  a 
Disquisition  !  But  I  refused  to  inflict  my  crude  and 
jejune  lucubration  upon  a  fastidious  if  patient  pub 
lic.  Wherefore  the  Government  snailed  my  sheep 
skin." 

"As  for  you,  Randolph,  they  say  that  you  have 
finally  acquired  a  grand  total  of  seventeen  unex- 
punged  'conditions.'  They  think  in  three  years  you 
may  get  them  off,  if  you  care  to  try." 

"Thanks,  so  very  kind,"  said  Randolph.  "I  ex 
pected  as  much  or  rather  more.  My  burden  has 
increased  like  the  national  debt — quite  like  the  Pil 
grim's  Progress,  without  a  sepulchre  handy." 

"  My  deah  fellah,"  said  Hackett,  with  his  favorite 
adapted  manner;  "wheah  did  you  pick  up  such  a 
curious  literatchah  ?  I  shall  expect  to  hear  you 
quote  scripture  next." 


144  GUERNDALE. 

"The  Bible,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  grandest  book 
ever  written,  and  the  first  every  man  should  read," 
said  Norton  simply. 

"One  for  him,"  Strang  chuckled  audibly.  Hack- 
ett,  having  no  reply  ready,  turned  to  Bixby.  "  Billy," 
said  he,  "  you're  dished — finally.  No  hope  this  time." 

Bixby  jumped  a  foot.     "  Oh,  come,  not  really?" 

"  I  regret  to  say  it,"  said  Hackett. 

"  There  goes  my  three  years'  vacation  all  in  a 
heap;  I  should  really  like  to  know  what  for,"  he 
added  musingly. 

"  O,  really,  my  boy,  when  you  drive  up  Beacon 
Street,  Sunday  afternoon,  in  a  Tally-ho  coach,"  said 
Brattle. 

"And  scour  the  country  with  another  Hellfire 
club  like  that  of  Medmenham,"  added  Strang. 

"And  threaten  Tutor  Lynx  to  put  him  through  in 
Paris,"  laughed  Guy. 

"And  treat  old  Professor  Blowglass  the  way  you 
did!" 

Bixby's  long  features  gradually  extended  into  a 
grin. 

"  I  did  take  it  out  of  old  Blowglass,  didn't  I?"  said 
he  with  a  chuckle.  "  Gad  !  how  he  did  run  !  " 

"  What  was  that  ? "  cried  Brattle.  "  That  must  have 
been  the  year  I  was  suspended." 

"Why,"  said  Van  Sittart,  "old  Blbwglass  had  his 
back  turned,  freezing  water  in  a  red-hot  stew  pan, 
or  going  through  some  such  shenanigen,  and  when 
he  turned  round  there  was  a  cannon-cracker  smoking 
under  his  desk,  about  the  size  of  four  Bologna  sau 
sages.  All  the  fellows  saw  it  at  the  same  time,  and, 


GUERNDALE.  145 

by  gad,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  skip.  Most  of 
us  went  out  the  window;  the  darn  thing  was  a-fizzin' 
and  a-sputterin'  and  old  Blowglass,  he  lit  out  first  of 
all." 

"  Jove!  "  laughed  Brattle,  "  it  must  have  blown  all 
the  windows  out  of  the  old  place." 

"  That's  what  we  all  thought,"  said  Van  Sittart. 
"  It  was  the  kind  of  Chinese  cracker  they  use  in 
Fourth  of  July  processions  when  they  ain't  got  any 
artillery.  All  we  fellows  stood  round  the  door  wait 
ing  to  hear  the  thing  bang.  Old  Blowglass  was  in 
an  awful  state  of  funk,  and  went  out  and  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  yard,  but  the  lecture-room  was  as 
quiet  as  the  inside  of  a  gospel  shop.  Finally  old 
Blowglass  got  a  lot  of  proctors  and  they  sneaked  in 
with  their  handkerchiefs  before  their  eyes,  and  there 
was  the  cannon-cracker,  and  it  wasn't  loaded  at  all, 
it  was  only  a  fuse.  Of  course  they  had  Billy  up  be 
fore  the  Dean,  but  they  couldn't  do  much." 

"No,"  said  Billy  with  a  chuckle.  "I  had  taken 
the  gunpowder  out,  and  I  put  my  kaleidoscope  in 
side,  and  I  told  the  Dean  I  was  very  sorry  my  new 
case  had  frightened  the  gentlemen." 

"  Really,  Billy,"  said  Randolph,  "  such  little  ex 
periments  in  fine  arts  are  all  very  well,  but  the 
French  Opera  were  not  quite  the  sort  of  people  to 
bring  out,  Class  day.  It  shocks  our  prejudices,  you 
know." 

"O!  go  it,"  sighed  Bixby.  "What  else?  Any 
body  else  ? " 

"Van  Sittart,  I  hear.     And  Brattle  is  very  shaky. 
He  is  dropped,  at  least." 
7 


146  GUERNDALE. 

"Ay,"  said  Tom,  "  methought  I  heard  something 
fall.  I  am  no  squire  of  low  degree.  I've  no  degree 
at  all.  That,  I  believe,  has  the  true  Strang  ring  !  " 

"  My  children,"  said  John,  "  a  certain  solemnity 
in  the  hour  betokens  dinner.  I  feel  it — deeply." 
And  Strang  placed  his  brown  hand  above  his  capa 
cious  belt.  "  Let  us  shake  the  dust  of  Cambridge 
from  off  our  feet  and  fly  to  pastures  new." 

"I  wish  old  Phil  were  here,"  said  Guy.  "It  is 
probably  jour  maigre  with  him.  Monday  is  the 
race." 

"Gad,  fellows,  an  idea!"  cried  Bixby.  "Let's 
coach  to  Worcester  ! " 

The  humor  of  the  group  changed  at  once  from  the 
gay  tone  of  easy  banter  to  the  gravity  with  which 
one  considers  a  serious  matter. 

"  I  know  a  stable  at  West  Cambridge  where  they 
have  an  old  Concord  coach,  we  might  rig  up  as  best 
we  can,  like  the  real  thing,"  continued  Bixby,  "and 
horses  from  Pike's.  Who  can  drive  a  four-in-hand  ? 
I  can't  drive  all  the  time." 

"  Oh,  anybody;  what's  the  difference  if  we  do  up 
set  ?" 

"  My  servant  is  an  old  English  groom,  and  will 
wind  the  horn  for  you,"  said  Randolph. 

"  We  can  carry  the  drinks  and  things  inside  the 
coach,"  suggested  Van  Sittart. 

It  was  surprising,  the  sudden  influx  of  energy. 
The  plastik  of  the  party  had  changed  at  once  from 
ancient  Egyptian  to  a  style  quite  Greek  in  its 
motion  and  activity. 

"  Let's  cut  the  rest  of  Commencement,"  said  Bix- 


GUERNDALE.  147 

by.  "  They  don't  want  us.  Let  such  of  us  as  have 
degrees  depute  some  of  the  virtuous  to  grab  'em  out 
of  their  darned  old  basket.  We  must  get  off  by  six; 
I,  thank  the  Lord,  never  to  return." 

"  Except,"  said  Strang,  "  when  the  asperities  of 
academic  life  are  again  mitigated  by  Commencement 
punch." 

"  Speaking  of  punch,"  said  Bixby,  "Van  and  I 
will  look  after  the  cellar  department.  Brattle,  you 
arrange  about  the  coach,  will  you  ?  Strang  can  see 
to  the  horses.  And,  Guerndale,  go  in  town  and  get 
some  rockets  and  cannon  crackers,  there's  a  good 
fellow.  As  for  Randolph,  he  is  too  lazy  to  do  any 
thing,  I  suppose." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  he;  "I  will  store  my  energies 
against  a  sudden  emergency.  Meanwhile,  I  will 
stay  to  prod  the  plodders." 

"  But  how  about  feed  ? "  said  some  one. 

"  Oh,  any  one  can  see  to  that ;  get  Lane,"  cried 
Brattle. 

"  If  his  aunts  will  let  him  come,"  growled  Bixby. 

"We're  very  sorry  we  can't  hope  to  have  you  join 
us,  Hackctt,"  said  Norton;  "but  I  suppose  your 
Commencement  part  will  interfere.  Come,  fellows, 
bustle — bustle — the  most  beastly  word  in  the  lan 
guage  I  know — but  we  must  be  away  by  six." 

And  Randolph,  stopping  only  to  roll  a  cigarette, 
walked  indolently  away  toward  his  rooms.  The  rest 
had  already  scattered,  no  more  to  press  the  sacred 
herbage  in  front  of  Holworthy. 

It  was  admitted  on  all  sides  to  be  a  great  ride — 
that  of  ours  from  Cambridge  to  Worcester.  A  nine- 


148  GUERNDALE. 

teenth  century  edition  of  Paul  Revere.  The  com 
missariat  department,  consisting  of  Randolph's  ser 
vant  and  the  stores,  rode  inside,  which  part  of  the 
coach  was  accordingly  yclept  the  cellar,  and  it  also 
served  as  a  hospital  for  such  of  the  party  as  were 
overcome  by  the  heat  or  "otherwise,"  as  Bixby 
euphemistically  put  it.  Flags  of  many  and  various 
shades  of  Harvard  red  waved  from  every  corner. 
Bixby  and  Van  Sittart  sat  at  the  back  of  the  coach, 
dispensing  ignited  squibs  and  serpents  among  the 
admiring  multitude,  and  occasionally  defending  our 
rear  from  the  onslaught  of  the  barefooted  villagers. 
The  proceedings  were  otherwise  diversified  by  the 
persistent  attempts  of  the  same  youths  to  render 
"  Fair  Harvard,"  on  the  coaching  horn.  In  this  way, 
if  our  entree  into  each  village  was  triumphant,  our 
departure  bore  more  the  semblance  of  an  escape. 

Thus  we  rode  through  the  elm-shaded  Middlesex 
roads,  calling  at  country  farm-houses  for  milk  or 
other  refreshments — our  supply  of  solids  being  lim 
ited — where  we  were  taken  for  an  organized  body  of 
tramps,  and  where  Bixby  was  invariably  found  flirt 
ing  with  the  daughters  of  the  house  in  the  milk  room  ; 
stopping  at  country  inns  by  night  to  pass  away  the 
quiet  hours  at  the  card-table,  to  the  wonder  of  the 
natives  and  the  commercial  travellers,  who  were  the 
usual  guests  ;  driving  off  in  the  early  morning,  with 
the  nine  Harvard  cheers  and  a  boom  of  cannon- 
crackers  ;  sleeping  away  the  hot  noons  ;  smoking, 
drinking,  and  singing  on  the  top  of  the  coach  ;  up 
setting  once,  under  the  guidance  of  Randolph,  Avho 
never  could  be  induced  to  hold  the  horses  going  down 


GUERNDALE.  149 

hill,  and,  to  our  great  grief,  breaking  a  flagon  of 
excellent  champagne  cup  ;  on,  like  a  very  rout  of 
Comus,  with  the  two  sheepskin  degrees  of  the  party 
tied  in  pride  around  the  whfp  by  their  own  pink  rib 
bons,  generally  making  of  ourselves  a  fearful  ex 
ample  to  the  bucolic  districts  ;  so  that  the  country 
newspapers  teemed  with  the  enormities  of  Harvard 
for  Aveeks  after,  and  dozens  of  country  clergymen 
sent  their  hopeful  sprouts  to  Amherst,  or  Williams,  or 
Princeton  instead  ;  on,  while  Bixby  drank  and  Strang 
grinned,  and  Van  and  Brattle  played  games,  and 
Lane  preserved  his  politeness,  and  Randolph  poured 
cynicism  into  Guerndale's  ear ;  on  to  Worcester,  in  a 
blaze  of  flags  and  fireworks,  where  tall,  thin  youths  in 
linen  dusters  and  high  hats,  or  straw  hats  and  frock 
coats,  ribboned  like  an  Austrian  field  marshal  in 
blue,  betokened  the  presence  of  the  men  of  Yale. 
And  these  same  men  of  Yale  concealed  the  admira 
tion  which  our  entree  must  have  inspired,  under  a 
running  fire  of  chaff,  which  it  took  the  united  wit 
and  tongue  of  the  party  on  top  of  the  coach  to  re 
spond  to  and  return  in  due  form.  The  Yale  student, 
like  most  American  undergraduates,  \sfortengueule; 
and  it  finally  became  advisable  to  call  up  Randolph's 
groom,  who,  versed  in  the  slang  of  Newmarket  and 
the  amenities  of  British  jockeys,  succeeded  in  "get 
ting  off  several  grinds,"  as  Bixby  put  it,  upon  the  en 
tire  party.  From  the  usual  polite  personalities,  the 
talk  turned  upon  the  prospects  of  the  race,  and  ar 
gument  from  probabilities  ended  in  quite  a  natural 
way  in  argumentum  adcrumenam.  A  rapid  series  of  bets 
were  made  and  salted  ;  and  Bixby  and  Brattle  were 


I5O  GUERNDALE. 

kept  busy  with  their  betting-books,  while  Strang,  an 
old  oar,  and  known  to  both  colleges,  was  literally 
loaded  down  with  greenbacks  as  stake-holder. 

"  Gad  !  "  said  Van  Sittf rt,  "  the  Yale  fellows  are  ac 
tually  backing  their  own  crew  even.  Fifty  more  r 
No,  thanks— got  all  I  can  carry.  I  say,  Lane,  take  a 
bet  for  the  honor  of  the  college.  We  can't  have  these 
fellows  offering  against  Harvard,  and  no  takers  !  " 

Lane  blushed,  and  timidly  pulled  out  a  fifty-dollar 
note,  which,  with  a  similar  contribution  from  Yale, 
were  stuffed  in  John  Strang's  capacious  pocket. 
But  still  the  offers  flowed  in  from  the  crowd  from 
New  Haven.  "  I  say,"  said  Bixby,  with  the  usual 
formula,  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face, 
"  I  wish  some  of  our  men  would  come.  These  fellows 
are  as  rocky  as  a  country  road.  Hello,  Randolph, 
in  there  !  Wake  up  !  " 

Randolph  had  retired  to  the  interior  of  the  coach, 
and  was  apparently  wrapped  in  slumber. 

"O,  darn  the  fifties,"  cried  at  this  moment  a  lanky 
fellow  from  the  sidewalk,  wearing  a  white  "plug" 
hat  surrounded  by  a  broad  blue  band.  "  I  go  a 
hundred  or  nothin'.  Damn  you  Harvard  men,  you 
can't  back  your  own  crew.  Here's  a  hundred  on 
Yale  !  Yale  !  Ya-a-le  'n  no  takers." 

"Yale,  Yale,  h — 1,"  grunted  Brattle. 

Bixby  began  to  sputter  viciously  from  the  back  of 
the  coach.  Then  Randolph's  quiet  accents  came 
softly  from  the  cellar  : 

"  Guy  up  there  ?  Tell  the  gentleman  from  Yale  I 
see  his  hundred  with  pleasure,  and  raise  him  a  thou 
sand." 


GUERNDALE.  !$! 

"  I  only  said  I'd  bet  a  hundred,"  answered  he  of 
the  ulster,  when  Randolph's  message  was  delivered 
by  Guerndale,  "and  really  I  haven't " 

"Then  dry  up,"  put  in  Bixby  tersely.  "Put  up 
or  shut  up  ! "  and  the  coach  stopped  before  the  Har 
vard  headquarters  in  triumph,  while  Van  Sittart  ex 
ploded  a  timely  bomb,  which  soon  brought  the 
Harvard  contingent  about  us.  An  astonished  police 
man  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  struggled  vainly 
to  reach  the  offender,  and,  giving  it  up  in  disgust, 
contented  himself  with  the  arrest  of  two  small  boys 
at  a  distance. 

Guy,  however,  was  a  little  weary  of  this.  He  soon 
got  away  from  the  others,  and,  hiring  a  buggy,  drove 
c.ut  to  the  crew's  quarters  on  the  lake.  He  had  not 
seen  Phil  for  nearly  a  month,  and  found  him  brown 
er  than  ever ;  his  face  well  filled  out,  his  great  blue 
eyes  clear,  his  body  trained  down,  in  fine  condition 
for  a  pull.  A  superb  six  they  were,  too  ;  but  the 
true  Harvard  cut — small-waisted,  though  broad- 
shouldered,  long-limbed,  with  a  general  look  about 
them  of  more  blood  than  bone. 

"Well,  old  boy,  our  four  years  are  over,  hey?" 
cried  Symonds.  "  I'm  afraid  we  shan't  see  so  much 
fun  again  in  a  hurry." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Guy.  "  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do  these  next  years.  To-morrow  I  am  going 
up  to  Dale  to  loaf  for  a  while.  Then,  I  don't  know 
—perhaps,  I  shall  go  abroad  with  Randolph.  I  wish 
there  were  something  one  could  study  there  besides 
medicine  and  art." 

"What's    the   use   of   going   abroad   to   grind?" 


152  GUERNDALE. 

growled  Symonds.  "Gad  !  if  I  could  go,  I  shouldn't 
take  much  of  that  in  mine,  thank  you.  But  the 
governor's  mad  over  my  debts,  and  swears  I've  got 
to  go  into  his  counting-room  on  the  first  of  August, 
just  when  I  hoped  to  get  to  Paris.  O,  Lord  !"  and 
Phil  sighed  like  a  furnace.  "  By  the  way,  I  almost 
forgot — there's  a  devilish  important  thing  I  want  you 
to  do  for  me,  old  man — you  will,  -won't  you  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course,  Phil.  What  a  question  to  ask 
of  me — as  if  there  were  anything  I  wouldn't  do  for 
you  ;  and  you  know  it,  old  fellow." 

"You  see  I  wanted  like  the  deuce  and  all  to  pot  a 
little  money  this  trip.  If  I  could  raise  a  few  hun 
dreds,  I'd  go  to  Europe  in  spite  of  the  old  man.  If 
I  could  only  get  out  there,  he'd  send  me  cash  to  get 
back  fast  enough.  Now  I  went  and  bet  a  cool  thou 
sand  on  our  crew.  And  the  fact  is,  Guy,"  and  Phil's 
voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  "we  aren't  going  to  win 
this  race.  Eliot  has  gone  queer  in  the  insides  and 
is  all  bunged  up.  I  only  found  it  out  just  now. 
Now,  if  I  lose  this  thousand,  I  can't  pay  it— anyhow. 
I  bet  with  men  I  knew;  so  I  didn't  have  to  put  it  up, 
and  I  thought  WTC  were  dead  sure  to  win.  Don't  say 
anything  about  Eliot  to  any  of  the  fellows — at  least 
not  until  you  have  got  it  all  fixed  up;  and  I  advise 
you  to  put  in  a  little  on  Yale  on  your  own  ac 
count." 

Guy  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I'd  rather  not,  Phil," 
he  said. 

"Rather  not?  why  not,  Guy?  Hang  it  all,  I've 
never  asked  a  favor  of  you  before;  and  now  you'd 
rather  not?  It's  all  right — I  wouldn't  bet  against 


GUERNDALE.  153 

my  own  crew,  of  course,  but  to  hedge  is   another 
matter." 

"  But  I  can  only  get  bets  on  Harvard  from  Har 
vard  men — our  friends." 

"You  needn't  go  to  our  fellows — take  it  from  the 
older  men,  the  graduates.  They've  got  to  lose  the 
money  to  somebody,  don't  you  see  ?  and  better  to 
you  and  me  than  those  Yale  fellows." 

Guy's  face  brightened  up  suddenly.  "Tell  you 
what  I  will  do,  Phil;  I'll  lend  you  the  money  to  pay, 
with  pleasure." 

"  Damn  your  money  !  "  said  Phil.  And  so  forth.  It 
certainly  looked  like  serious  trouble  between  those 
two — the  first  they  had  ever  had  since  they  tumbled 
ii.to  the  pond  as  children.  Fortunately,  Guy's  ob 
stinacy  was  overcome  by  Phil's  good  nature.  Sy- 
mond's  never  could  be  angry  long — even  with  a 
friend,  as  Randolph  would  say.  And  after  a  while 
his  hearty  laugh  rolled  out  again,  and  the  two  sat 
chatting  until  it  came  time  for  the  evening  spin  of 
the  crew.  And  Guy  sat  and  watched  them  go  out- 
prouder  than  ever  of  his  chum  as  he  saw  the  start, 
the  style,  and  fire  of  Phil's  quick  stroke  seeming  to 
make  the  boat  quiver  and  throb  through  the  water. 

"  Forty- two,"  said  a  voice  close  by  Guy.  "  Hm — 
too  much,  Symonds." 

"Hallo,  John,"  said  Guy,  "when  did  you  come 
out?" 

"Just  now.  Five  doesn't  finish.  Who's  rowing 
five  ? " 

"Eliot." 

"  The  man  you  were  talking  of  an  hour  ago  ?" 
7* 


1 54  GUERNDALE. 

"You  heard  it?" 

"Just  as  I  came  in — besides,  didn't  know  the  con 
versation  was  private." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  did,  but  Phil  doesn't  want  it 
known.  Eliot  is  out  of  condition;  and  Phil  wanted 
me  to  hedge  his  bets  for  him,  but  I  didn't  like  to, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  have  offended  the  dear  old  boy, 
though  he  wouldn't  show  it,  and  forgave  me  directly, 
like  a  brick  as  he  is.  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  was 
wrong  ? " 

"  I  think  you  were  right,"  said  Strang. 

"  I'm  glad  you  do,"  said  Guy  ;  "  though  still,  you 
see,  I  think  Phil  only  meant he  was  only  hedg 
ing " 

Strang  began  to  laugh. 

"  What's  the  joke  ? "  said  Guy,  seriously. 

"  To  hear  you  arguing  for  Phil  against  yourself." 

Guy  hated  ridicule  and  turned  away.  Strang' 
looked  after  him  curiously,  and  then  out  over  the 
lake.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  still  surface  ov 
Quinsigamond  like  molten  gold.  Afar  down  the  lak . 
Harvard's  returning  crew  moved  slowly,  a  little  dark 
line  upon  the  water.  From  the  opposite  shore  was 
borne  a  faint  noise  of  the  cheering  which  greeted  the 
coming  of  the  'Varsity  six  ;  Phil  Symonds,  stroke. 

Guy  drove  back  to  the  town  with  Strang.  Thej 
found  the  streets  crowded  with  excited  students. 
The  ordinary  business  of  the  citizens  of  the  place 
seemed  suspended.  The  highway  dignified  with  the 
name  of  Main  Street  was  really  animated.  On  the 
corners  groups  of  blue  and  red  ribboned  young  mer. 
were  eagerly  discussing  the  latest  news  from  the 


GUERNDALE.  155 

lake.  The  Boston  and  New  York  morning  papers 
of  the  day  contained  long  articles  on  the  probable 
result  of  the  race,  which  were  anxiously  read  by  the 
students,  notwithstanding  they  knew  them  to  be 
written  by  Brown  of '72,  a  "  scrub,"  who  knew  less 
about  the  crews  than  they  did  themselves.  The 
apartment  in  the  hotels  which  was  graced  by  the 
presence  of  the  clerk,  usually  a  rambling  hall,  with 
walls  covered  with  gaudy  advertisements,  and  a  dirty 
marble  floor,  was  thronged  with  that  youth  which, 
in  journalistic  phrase,  constituted  the  hope  of  the 
country.  The  neighboring  bar  was  fringed  with  a 
continuous  bibulous  queue,  who  poured  down  many 
and  various  "  mixed  "  drinks,  and  made  bets  for  more. 
Occasionally  a  scrap  of  college  song  was  heard 
above  the  hum  of  conversation,  soon  to  be  drowned 
by  the  groans  of  those  of  the  rival  college. 

Guy  and  his  friends,  finding  it  impossible  to  get  a 
room,  dispensed  with  the  luxury  of  a  bed;  but  Billy 
Bixby  discovering  an  apartment  held  by  a  weak 
contingent  of  Yale  men,  an  assault  was  ordered, 
which  promptly  dislodged  the  latter ;  and  our  friends, 
barricading  the  door,  held  their  position  against  all 
invaders  over  a  boAvl  of  champagne  punch.  About 
dawn  the  dregs  of  this  were  generously  bestowed  upon 
the  heads  of  a  party  who  attempted  an  escalade  from 
the  street.  A  quarter  of  the  garrison  kept  watch  and 
ward  at  the  window  and  door  while  the  others  played 
unlimited  loo  at  the  centre  table.  Thus,  heedless  of 
complaints  from  the  agonized  proprietor,  our  hopeful 
graduates  passed  the  night  away. 

The  race  was  announced  for  early  in  the  morning, 


156  GUERNDALE. 

and  by  eleven  the  crews  were  off.  Harvard  took  a 
slight  lead  at  the  start,  rowing  in  beautiful  form. 
But,  with  a  vicious  splash  and  jerk — rowing,  as  all 
critics  said,  like  bargemen — Yale  passed  them  at  the 
mile,  and  ended  an  easy  winner. 

The  demoralization  of  the  Harvard  forces  was  com 
plete.  Not  waiting  for  the  regatta  ball,  which  was 
to  conclude  the  day,  our  friends  scattered  far  and 
wide. 

Stranggot  into  difficulty  after  the  race  by  crushing 
an  Irishman's  osfrontis  for  speaking  in  uncomplimen 
tary  terms  of  the  esteemed  university  which  had  just 
refused  him  a  degree.  Bixby  stayed  to  bail  him  out, 
having  won  largely  at  loo,  the  night  before.  Lane 
and  Brattle  betook  themselves  to  their  blameless 
firesides  ;  Randolph  and  Van  Sittart,  to  Newport, 
the  former  with  a  promise  to  and  from  Guy  for  an 
early  visit.  And  Guy  took  the  afternoon  train  west 
for  Dale,  lying  in  midsummer  sleepiness  amid  the 
Berkshire  Hills. 

His  head  was  still  racking  and  his  thought  con 
fused  writh  the  last  night's  punch  and  profanity,  and 
the  green  afternoon  had  a  soothing  influence.  He 
smoked  and  thought  dreamily  of  things  in  general. 
He  had  a  curious  feeling  as  if  things  in  general  had 
come  to  an  end.  His  college  life  was  ended.  Bien 
— apres  ?  He  did  not  know. 

What,  why,  wherefore,  whither,  and  every  other 
accursed  "  w  "that  the  devil  ever  invented,  rolled 
lazily  through  his  mind.  Even  his  enthusiasm 
seemed  asleep.  He  thought  of  Randolph,  and  then, 
with  some  uneasiness,  of  Phil. 


GUERNDALE.  157 

Phil  had  told  him  after  the  race  that  he  was  going 
to  Europe  anyhow  ;  and  he  had  given  a  half  promise 
to  join  him  in  Paris. 

And  then  lie  thought  fondly  of  his  own  mother, 
living  the  quiet  life  of  an  unobtrusive  Lady  Bounti 
ful  in  the  old  town  up  in  the  hills  ;  living  as  much  in 
the  past  as  the  present  ;  regretting  much,  but  hop 
ing  much  also.  He  knew  she  was  very  fond  of  him  ; 
but  he  ahvays  fancied  her  to  be  comparing  him  with 
his  own  father,  and  he  knew  enough  of  him  to  know 
that  he  was  very  different,  and  that  his  father  had 
not  had  a  successful  life.  A  born  recluse  ;  a  man 
whose  highest  ambition  was  to  be  clergyman  in 
Dale  ;  and,  failing  in  that  ....  At  all  events, 
he,  Guyon,  must  not  fail.  He  was  for  the  world,  the 
world  still,  if  in  a  high  sense  ....  Yet  was 
he  so  sure  of  that  ?  After  all,  what  did  he  see  in  the 
world  that  he  really  desired  ?  He  could  not  help 
understanding  Randolph  when  he  said  "  there  was 
much  to  envy,  little  to  admire "  .  .  .  .  Then 
there  was  society.  Eire  aitnable  ct  plaire  aux  femmes 
— after  all,  was  that  the  highest  duty  of  a  gentleman  ? 
.  .  .  .  Money — he  had  enough.  Would  he  take 
more  ?  Yes,  he  would  take  it,  but  as  for  laboring  to 
acquire  it  ....  After  all,  what  was  he  vexing 
himself  with  abstractions  for  ?  And  he  walked  out 
upon  the  platform  of  the  rear  car,  where  he  sat  and 
smoked  a  concrete  cigar. 

There  is  something  intensely  sad  about  the  New. 
England  country.  With  an  unkempt,  half-reclaimed 
raggedness  it  joins  the  wild,  sad  beauty  of  a  relapse 
into  nature.  It  is  an  Italy  without  architecture,  but 


1 58  GUERNUALE. 

the  moss  clings  as  kindly  to  the  wood,  and  the  vines 
hang  as  lazily  to  the  stone  walls,  as  if  all  the  decay 
of  Paestum  fed  their  growth.  Not  so  in  the  ugly, 
successful,  manufacturing  towns,  but  in  the  lazy 
orchard-bounded  country  roads,  in  the  mossy  vine- 
grown  walls,  behind  which  the  square  elm-shaded 
mansions  stare  gloomily  forward  over  a  wraste  of  for 
gotten  agriculture  or  modern  industry.  Beauty  of 
art  it  rjever  had  ;  beauty  in  life  it  never  had  ;  but  it 
has  beauty  in  decay.  The  square  old  farm-houses 
blink  through  their  blindless  windows,  lonely  and 
forlorn.  The  young  men  have  sought  the  "genteel  " 
in  cities,  and  are  dapper  salesmen  or  smug  commer 
cial  travellers  ;  the  daughters — what  docs  become  of 
the  daughters  ? — and  around  the  old  fireside,  now 
plastered  up  and  fitted  with  an  iron  stove,  the  old 
'  squire  '  sits  with  his  wife,  and  finds  even  his  weary 
hands  strong  enough  to  manage  the  abandoned  farm. 
Meanwhile,  higher  grow  the  elms  and  more  gaunt 
and  spectral  the  few  Lombardy  poplars  before  the 
house;  and  closer  twines  the  wild  grape  about  the 
rocks  in  the  pastures,  and  the  barren  apple-trees, 
forgotten  in  the  swamps  and  woodland  clearings. 
And  Guy  pondered  dreamily  of  a  long  talk  he  had 
had  with  Randolph,  the  night  before.  "  Does  it 
pay?"  he  had  said,  "  that  is  the  great  question.  It 
is  a  frequent  phrase,  and,  by  that  very  frequency,  a 
good  text,  too.  That  question  must  be  asked  of 
every  end,  thought,  action,  or  mode  of  life.  You 
regret  many  things,  I  regret  more,  and  yet  they  dis 
appeared  in  due  course  before  that  mighty  logic  of 
that  modern  catechism.  They  did  not  pay 


GUERNDALE.  159 

Look  at  religion,  the  idea  of  God.  Dr.  Newlitc 
shows  us  in  his  book  the  incalculable  number  of 
lives  ;  the  amount  of  suffering  ;  the  loss  of  art  and 
knowledge  and  civilization  ;  that  has  been  caused 
by  religion,  its  hate  and  bigotry.  And  what  has 
it  brought  in  recompense  ?  Has  it  squared  the 
accounts  ?  No,  decidedly  ;  a  God  does  not  pay. 
Love  does  not  ;  purity  does  not  ;  nobility  does  not. 
Worldly  ambition  may — if  you  consider  the  game 
worth  the  candle.  I  don't."  And  Randolph  had 
taken  a  glass  of  champagne  punch  and  relapsed  into 
his  more  accustomed-  badinage.  "  Vogue  la  galere  ! 
I  had  almost  said  something  I  had  a  distant  idea  of 
believing  in."  Ah,  if  Randolph  had  only  a  dash  of 
Phil  Symonds — or  rather  if  Phil  Symonds  had  only 
a  dash  of  Randolph,  thought  Guy.  And  he  thought 
of  Phil's  honest,  hearty  smile  ;  and  the  plucky  way 
he  had  pulled  a  losing  race. 

So  Guy  mused,  as  his  train  trundled  up  the  gradual 
slope  from  the  green  meadow  country  about  the 
Connecticut  with  its  clumps  of  elms,  to  the  woods  and 
hills  of  Western  Massachusetts.  Finally  the  train 
stopped  at  Dale,  and  he  sent  his  luggage  forward, 
choosing,  for  himself,  the  two  mile  walk  by  the  sun 
set.  He  knew  that  the  Bonnymorts  had  come  home  ; 
and  looked  toward  their  house  as  he  approached  it. 
It  was  seven  years  since  he  had  seen  Annie.  He  won 
dered  what  she  had  grown  to  be  like.  Two  young 
ladies  he  saw  were  playing  croquet  upon  the  lawn. 
Croquet  is  at  no  time  a  very  amusing  game  ;  still  less 
so,  except  to  the  bystander,  when  played  by  two 
young  ladies.  So  the  younger  and  prettier  of  the 


l6o  GUERNDALE. 

two  was  knocking  around  the  balls  in  an  aimless  way, 
while  the  taller  girl  stood  shading  her  eyes,  looking 
toward  the  road. 

Guy  was  taller  by  a  head  and  shoulders  than  the 
low  hedge  which  separated  the  lawn  from  the  road  ; 
and,  as  he  brushed  along  by  the  leafage,  he  looked 
over  into  the  croquet-ground  and  their  eyes  met. 
Annie  came  running  forward  directly. 

"  Oh,  Guy  ! "  she  said,  "  I  knew  I  should  knoAV 
you  again.  I  heard  you  were  coming  to-day."  Her 
face  broke  into  the  sweetest  of  smiles,  and  she 
pressed  close  into  the  thick  of  the  hedge  and  gave 
him  her  hand  over  the  blossoms.  Guy  felt  himself 
turning  quite  red.  He  had  expected  no  such  warm 
greeting,  thinking,  indeed,  that  Annie  had  probably 
forgotten  him.  He  held  her  hand  rather  awkwardly, 
not  wishing  to  drop  it  into  the  prickles,  and  wras 
conscious  of  a  strong  temptation  to  address  her  as 
Miss  Bonnymort. 

"  Why,  you  have  hardly  changed  !  "  she  went  on. 
"  Come  around  by  the  gate."  But  Guy  placed  his 
hand  on  the  outer  rail,  and  vaulted  over  it,  hedge 
and  all.  Annie's  eyes  were  quite  as  he  had  remem 
bered  them  ;  but,  now  that  he  was  beside  her,  he 
saw,  of  course,  that  she  was  much  taller,  and  was 
dressed  in  some  kind  of  white,  fleecy  material  The 
other  young  lady  had  gone  into  the  house. 

It  was  already  quite  dark  when  Guy  went  home, 
walking  \vith  the  quick,  uncertain  step  of  one  who 
is  unconscious  of  his  surroundings.  But  the  last 
few  weeks  were  already  an  older  past  than  the  days 
when  he  had  been  a  child  in  this  same  sweet  coun- 


GUERNDALE.  l6l 

try  ;  the  stars  of  the  sky  were  full  of  a  strange  new 
meaning  for  him,  and  the  sounds  of  the  summer 
night  woke  memories  of  that  old  evening  when  he 
walked  back  from  the  pages  of  Dante,  years  before. 
Now  as  then 

"  Lo  giorno  se  n'  andava,  e  1'  aer  bruno 
Toglieva  tji  animai  che  sono  in  terra 
Dalle  fatiche  loro " 

and  the  time  of  day  and  the  sweet  season  seemed 
once  more  to  be  calling  him  to  newer  hoping  and  to 
higher  aims. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"EcceDeus  fortior  me,  qui  veniens  dominabitur  mihi." — DANTE. 

ANNIE  BONNYMORT  was  the  daughter  of  a 
gentleman,  and  a  gentleman  who  meant  his 
daughter  to  grow  up  a  lady,  and  did  not  expect  her 
suddenly  to  become  one  when  first  she  appeared  in 
company.  She  had  never  been  at  boarding-school-. 
She  had  never  had  a  dozen  or  more  dearest  friends 
with  whom  she  spent  the  better  part  of  the  year. 
She  had  never  romped  promiscuously  in  the  hall 
ways  of  American  sea-side  hotels.  She  had  lived 
much  in  the  country  and  all  out-doors  ;  she  had  not 
been  afraid  of  the  woods  or  lonely  in  them.  As 
a  child,  she  had  had  unlimited  use  of  the  clef  des 
champs,  without  the  fear  of  freckles  before  her  eyes. 
Much  of  her  life  had  necessarily  been  passed  abroad, 
where  she  had  lived  very  quietly,  respecting  Euro 
pean  conventions,  and  avoiding  table  d'hotes.  Her 
manners  were  a  rare  combination  of  frankness  and 
courtesy,  so  that  a  knave  feared  her,  a  fool  was  de 
ceived  by  her,  and  a  gentleman  adored  her.  Yet,  I 
think  she  was  too  simple  in  thought  to  see  all  this ; 
and  her  nature  was  such  that  the  characters  of  those 
about  her  were  purified  and  ennobled  by  passing 


GUERNDALE.  163 

through  her  mind,  and  all  people  seemed  to  her  bet 
ter  than  they  were.  Guy  once  said  of  her  to  me, 
her  thoughts  were  not  thoughts,  but  sweet  feelings. 
Above  all,  she  had  two  great  marks  of  a  lady — 
sweetness  and  dignity. 

So  the  next  morning  Guy  woke  up,  earlier  than 
usual,  and  found  the  world  an  easier  world  to  get  up 
into.  All  his  ambitions,  beliefs,  hopes,  seemed  to  take 
new  color  that  July  day.  He  seemed  to  hold  a  key 
to  the  meaning  of  things  ;  he  was  not  quite  sure 
how,  but  knew  all  would  come  right  in  time.  He 
wondered  at  this  frame  of  mind  while  he  was  dress 
ing,  and  finally  ascribed  it,  wholly  to  his  satisfac 
tion,  to  the  fresh  Berkshire  air.  "  What  a  pity  there 
i  •  no  country  life  in  America,"  thought  he.  "  If 
one  could  only  do  something  here — something  at 
once  national  and  local,  as  a  fellow  can  in  England. 
If  people  could  only  believe  in  one's  honesty  and 
singleness  of  purpose  one  might  go  into  politics." 

It  was  an  odd  breakfast  table,  that  of  Guy  and  his 
mother.  She,  a  woman  of  the  past ;  he,  never  more 
decidedly  than  now  a  man  of  the  future.  Hester, 
the  old  servant,  who  had  heard  his  father  preach  his 
first  sermon,  whom  he  had  married,  whose  husband 
had  abused  her,  then  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to 
come  back  to  Dale  and  live  in  peace,  while  she  kept 
canny  hold  upon  her  earnings  in  the  books  of  the 
Dale  Savings  Bank — put  in  her  name,  well  out  of  his 
clutches — Hester  hovered  about  them  grimly,  like 
an  arbiter  between  fate  and  hope. 

Guy's  mother  seemed  to  him  more  and  more  to  be 
going  back,  forgetting  him  out  of  her  life.  Every- 


164  GUERNDALE. 

thing  he  did  was  either  like  his  father  or  unlike  his 
father  ;  more  frequently  now  the  latter  than  the 
former. 

But  Guy  was  a  grown  man  now ;  the  square, 
rough-hewn  oaken  beams  in  the  floor  creaked  be 
neath  his  weight  as  they  had  not  done  under  a  male 
Guerndale  for  two  generations,  and  his  mother 
seemed  to  feel  this  dimly,  and  in  some  way  to  re 
linquish  her  active  part  in  life  to  him.  She  did  not 
oppose  him,  but  her  will  had  none  the  less  a  certain 
inertia  of  its  own  which  it  was  not  so  easy  to  disturb. 

Yes,  Guy  might  live  in  the  city  now,  if  he  liked  ; 
yes,  she  supposed  he  could  not  stay  in  Dale.  He  had 
always  hoped  that  she  would  take  a  house  in  the 
city  when  he  grew  up  ?  Oh,  no,  she  could  not  do 
that !  She  was  too  old  now.  She  had  hoped  Guy 
would  be  a  clergyman,  like  his  father  ;  but  he  knew 
best.  Of  course  he  wrould  have  to  go  to  the  city  to 
practise  his  profession  or  business.  She  did  not  see 
why  he  should  have  business  if  he  was  not  going  to 
be  a  clergyman.  No,  she  could  never  be  happy  in 
the  city.  Every  one  had  forgotten  her  now.  Besides, 
it  was  too  far  from  his — father,  she  \vas  going  to  say, 
but  stopped.  Why  did  he  wish  to  go  so  much  ?  She 
had  always  thought  he  would  like  to  travel  after 
graduating.  His  father  had  been  abroad  before  study 
ing  divinity,  with  letters  from  Dr.  Channing  and  from 
Mr.  Emerson,  before  he  went  wrong.  His  father  had 
enjoyed  European  society  very  much.  Guy,  too, 
ought  to  go  and  see  something  of  the  world  before 
settling  down.  Why  did  he  want  to  settle  down  in 
Boston  so  soon  ? 


GUERNDALE.  165 

Guy  became  suddenly  conscious  of  remembering 
that  Annie — Miss  Bonnymort — had  told  him  they 
were  to  open  their  town  house  for  the  winter,  and 
this  first  memory  prevented  for  a  moment  his  re 
membering,  in  the  second  place,  that  he  had  decided 
to  study  mining,  and  that  it  was  best  for  him  to  study 
a  year  or  two  in  Boston  and  Cambridge  before  going 
to  Europe.  "  And  then,"  he  added  gaily,  "  I  can  tell 
whether  these  old  hills  really  contain  anything  like 
precious  stones  or  metals,  and  make  certain  that  our 
diamond  was  never  found  here,  and  that  Simmons 
really  tried  to  steal  it  from  old  Guy,  though  bad 
enough  he  was,  I  don't  doubt." 

This  was  the  first  time  Guy  had  ever  alluded  to 
the  story  since  his  mother  had  given  him  the  stone 
itself,  in  an  old  locket,  and  told  him  to  wear  it  always, 
as  his  father  had  done.  If  he  spoke  thus  to  let  in  a 
little  modern  light  and  cheerfulness  upon  the  musty 
old  legend,  he  tried  in  vain.  It  was  a  very  serious 
matter  to  his  father,  said  his  mother,  and  he  should 
know  better  than  to  jest  about  it.  No  good  had 
come  to  the  family  ever  since.  Evil  fortune  was  too 
serious  a  thing  to  laugh  at.  His  poor  father  had 
always  felt  that  it  had  prevented  his  doing  much 
good  in  his  ministry.  Mining  might  be  an  honest 
profession;  she  hoped  so  ;  but  desire  for  easily  won 
riches  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  all  their  troubles. 

"My  dear  mother,"  interrupted  Guy,  "you  must 
know  that  I  don't  particularly  value  money,  except 
as  a  means  to  an  end." 

"To  what  end  ?  Your  poor  father  was  content 
with  the  half  of  what  you  will  have." 


1 66  GUERNDALE. 

Guy  had  no  answer  ready,  being  distinctly  con 
scious  of  having  always  maintained  that  the  highest 
life  was  one  free  from  all  desire,  except  for  self-im 
provement  and  the  country's  good.  "At  all  events  I 
mean  to  live  an  open  life  among  men,  and  come  out 
of  the  dark  corner  where  we  have  lived  so  long,  and 
you  must  not  blame  me,  mamma  dear,  for  feeling  so." 

The  widow  sighed  and  rose  silently  from  the  table. 
When  Guy  was  away  she  was  devotedly  fond  of  him  ; 
when  he  was  present  she  enwrapped  both  Guy  and 
herself  in  the  gloom  of  the  past.  "Where  do  you 
go  to-day  ? "  she  said,  pausing  at  the  door. 

"  I — I  promised  Miss  Bonnymort  to  ride  with  her 
to  see  some  poor  people  in  whom  she  is  interest 
ed,"  said  Guy.  "  But  if  you  do  not  wish  me " 

"  O,  no,"  said  his  mother.  "I  had  hoped  you 
would  go  with  me  to  the  cemetery  to  see  whether 
you  do  not  think  your  father's  monument  needs 
polishing.  But  of  course  you  prefer  your  ride," 
and  the  widow  softly  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Guy  felt  all  conciliation  for  the  moment  impossi 
ble.  Moreover,  he  did  not  wish  to  break  his  engage 
ment  with  Annie.  So  he  threw  himself  upon  the 
small  Canadian  horse,  and  rode  across  meadow  ab 
stractedly,  taking  the  ditches  on  the  way. 

In  the  good  old  times  of  the  middle  ages,  when 
men  and  women  were  men  and  women,  we  know 
that  that  modern  sentimentality  known  as  love  filled 
little  space  of  life.  Deeds  were  more  common  than 
wrords,  much  more  common  than  thoughts  ;  and  love 
existed  purely  as  a  deed,  occasionally  occurring  in 
the  intervals  of  warfare  and  wassail.  We  also  know 


GUERNDALK.  ID/ 

that  since  the  appearance  of  Werther  and  Manon 
Lescaut,  its  German  form  has  been  purely  a  thought, 
its  French  form  impurely  a  deed.  But  the  simple 
and  idiotic  sentimentality  which  has  been  largely 
prevalent  among  the  English-speaking  races  was  in 
earlier  times  unknown — as  all  men  know. 

Consequently,  when  we  read  of  the  sternest  and 
gloomiest  face  that  frowned  through  the  streets  in 
the  bloodiest  years  of  Florence  ;  of  him  whose  life  was 
full  of  war  and  hate  and  envy,  and  embittered  by 
exile  and  loneliness,  we  know  that  here  at  least  we 
shall  find  110  trace  of  it.  A  man  from  whom  the  very 
children  in  the  streets  shrank  in  awe  ;  a  man  whose 
robes  they  feared  to  touch  (for  he  had  returned  from 
hell)  ;  in  his  book  we  shall  find  no  morbidness,  no 
smack  of  Werther  or  of  Gautier.  And  we  look  into 
the  second  page  of  his  first  work  and  find  .... 
"  When  I  first  saw  her  she  seemed  to  me  clothed  in 
noblest  blushes,  gentle  and  pure,  sunny  of  disposi 
tion,  girdled  and  adorned  plainly,  as  best  befitted  her 
youth.  At  that  instant,  I  say  truly  that  the  spirit 
of  life  which  abides  in  the  deepest  chamber  of  the 
heart,  began  to  tremble  so  that  I  felt  it  in  my  small 
est  pulses  most  fearfully  ;  and  all  in  trembling,  it 
spake  these  words  :  Behold  a  god  stronger  than  I 
who,  coming,  shall  rule  over  me.  And  at  that  instant 
the  spirit  of  the  body  which  dwelleth  in  that  part 
where  our  nutriment  is  administered,  began  to  weep, 
and  weeping  spake  these  words  :  Unhappy  me  !  for 
in  future  I  shall  often  be  hindered ." 

Thus  we  learn  that  so  long  ago  as  Anno  Domini 
1274,  men's  stomachs  were  weak  enough  to  forget 


1 68  GUERNDALE. 

digestion,  when  men's  minds  were  busied  with  love. 
So  Burton  speaks  of  "this  heroical  or  love  melan 
choly,  which  proceeds  from  women,  and  is  more 
eminent  above  the  rest,  and  properly  called  love  ; " 
and  maintains  that  the  "  part  affected  in  men  is  the 
liver  ;  and  hence  it  is  more  common  in  men  of 
generous  and  noble  dispositions." 

But,  perhaps,  the  times  were  as  we  thought  them, 
and  Dante  being  but  a  weak  creature,  after  all,  did 
not  truly  represent  them.  For  see,  he  says  :  "and 
I  say  that  from  that  time  love  had  lordship  over  my 
soul,  which  fell  so  soon  to  his  disposition,  and  so 
much  assurance  and  dominion  did  he  begin  to  take 
over  me,  by  the  virtue  which  my  imagination  gave 
him,  that  it  behooved  me  to  do  obediently  all  his 
pleasures.  And  many  times  he  commanded  me  to 
seek  to  see  that  young  woman  ;  wherefore  I  in  my 
youth,  often  went  about  in  search  of  her.  .  .  ." 
Silly  little  children  of  Florence  to  be  afraid  of  this 
man  !  Perhaps,  had  you  run  boldly  up,  he  would 
have  dandled  you  on  his  knees  and  given  you  lolli 
pops  after  all ! 

How  strangely  beautiful  is  the  mountain  air  some 
times  !  This  not  particularly  brilliant  reflection  was 
Guy's,  that  morning,  as  he  rode  through  the  mea 
dows  in  the  valley.  Particularly,  wrhen  coming  from 
a  city  or  crowd  ;  and,  most  of  all,  in  the  early  morn 
ing.  How  liquid  is  the  light ;  what  a  golden  green 
in  the  meadows  ;  what  a  smoky  purple  in  the  outer 
forest  spaces  that  hedge  the  intervale  !  How  white 
the  water  lilies  are,  studding  the  still  water  sur 
face,  the  edges  of  the  river,  and  the  straight,  black- 


GUERNDALE.  169 

rimmed  ditches  ;  how  vivid  the  purple  iris,  standing 
in  long,  tall  clumps  and  companies  from  out  the  yel 
low  blossomed  sedge  !  How  one  would  like  tot  live 
ail  the  year  round  among  all  these  fair  things  with 
—let  me  see,  what  is  her  name  in  your  case  ? 

Guy's  thoughts  ended  at  the  dash  and  went  on  in 
a  much  more  consistent  fashion.  He  had  scarcely 
thought  beyond  the  dash,  yet.  Moreover,  he  was 
leaving  the  meadow  and  riding  up  the  side  of  an 
orchard  slope,  not  far  from  the  very  pond  where 
Phil  and  he  had  had  their  aqueous  rencounter.  Guy 
sighed  a  little  to  think  how  Phil  had  improved  since 
then,  how  much  better  a  fellow  he  was  than  himself. 
Still,  it  was  all  the  better  having  such  a  man  for  a 
good  friend.  Then  Phil  was  going  abroad  that  sum 
mer.  He  had  thought  of  going  with  him,  but,  per 
haps,  it  was  just  as  well  he  should  not.  It  was  time 
for  him  to  be  getting  to  work.  Work  was  prayer, 
some  one  had  said.  Not  that  that  was  any  especial 
recommendation.  Prayer  was  the  highest  act  of 
man,  to  be  sure  ;  but  if  that  were  all  he  had  to  do, 
he  might  as  well  do  it  in  heaven  ;  cut  this  world, 
and  be  done  with  it.  As  John  Strang  would  say, 
the  highest  things  were  always  damned  impractica 
ble.  Perhaps  he,  Guy,  was  a  man  of  low  ideals  and 
worldly  ends.  Such  as  they  were  he  would  stick  to 
them.  The  re-establishment  of  a  name,  the  respect 
and  admiration  of  men  were  yet  good  things  if  won 
honorably — perhaps,  also,  wealth  and  fashion.  He 
did  not  think  Miss  Bonnymort  cared  much  for  Mrs. 
Grundy,  for  people  in  general — she  talked  too  much 
of  things  in  general.  Was  that  she  on  the  piazza  ? 


I/O  GUERNDALE. 

some  one  in  white — no,  this  one  was  dumpy  and  dif 
ferent  from  Annie.  It  was  Miss  Brattle.  He  did  not 
particularly  care  to  see  Miss  Brattle,  yet  was  dimly 
conscious  of  a  desire  to  conciliate  her.  She  looked 
excessively  spotless  and  cool,  with  a  starchiness  that 
extended  somewhat  to  her  manner.  Would  she 
shake  hands  ?  He  extended  his  own,  doubtfully, 
feeling  that  it  was  hot  and  smelt  of  the  leather  reins. 
He  had  not  worn  gloves — he  hated  them,  in  the 
country. 

Did  he  want  to  see  Miss  Bonnymort  ?  Yes — Annie 
was  going  to  ride  with  him — ah — that  is — He  felt  it 
was  somewhat  rude  to  shut  Miss  Brattle  so  entirely 
out  of  the  excursion. 

"  Oli,  I  am  to  be  of  the  party,  too,  Mr.  Guerndale. 
I  am  sorry  for  your  sake — but  Miss  Bonnymort 
asked  me." 

There,  he  had  offended  her.  So  Annie  asked  her 
— she  said  nothing  about  her,  yesterday.  Why  did 
Miss  Brattle  insist  on  calling  her  Miss  Bonnymort  ? 
And  why  was  he  so  embarrassed  ?  It  was  only  Tom 
Brattle's  sister — and  a  younger  sister,  too,  he  fan 
cied.  Still,  she  was  a  woman,  and  that  made  the 
difference.  His  appearance  was  not  irreproachable, 
and  his  manners  had  been  careless.  A  lady  should 
be  offended  by  none  of  the  coarse  common-places  of 
life.  They  were  sensitive,  shrinking,  and  pure  ;  all 
that  entered  the  sphere  of  their  presence  should  be 
sweet  and  courteous.  He  felt  that  her  womanly 
sense  had  seen  through  his  discourtesy  ;  he  wras  not 
even  sure  that  the  mental  oath  had  escaped  her. 
Somehow  he  had  not  thought  so  much  of  it  last 


GUERNDALE.  I/ 1 

night  ;  but  to-day  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  really 
was  not  fit  to  be  their  companion.  He  should  be 
continually  wounding  their  susceptibilities.  His 
thoughts  must  be  so  different  from  theirs — how 
should  he  refine  and  mould  them  to  make  conversa 
tion  possible  ? 

Just  then  he  heard  a  lighter  step  in  the  hall,  which 
he  knew  was  Annie's.  When  she  came  through  the 
door  and  gave  him  her  hand,  he  touched  it  hastily, 
and  felt  a  strange  difficulty  in  looking  at  her.  Since 
Miss  Brattle's  remark,  it  seemed  awkward  to  call  her 
by  her  first  name,  as  he  had  always  done.  Even 
when  Miss  Brattle  went  up  for  her  riding-habit  and 
left  them  together,  conversation  was  difficult,  and 
he  could  not  help  avoiding  her  eyes.  He  was  al 
most  afraid  of  her  ;  wrhen  he  lifted  her  on  her  horse, 
he  was  conscious  of  doing  it  nervously  and  clumsily. 
With  Miss  Brattle,  strangely  enough,  he  was  easier, 
though  he  knew  her  less  well.  During  the  ride  this 
odd  state  of  affairs  continued.  Either  he  had  no 
conversation,  or  he  became  garrulous  and  inclined 
to  talk  about  himself. 

Annie  looked  at  him  once  or  twice  in  surprise; 
Miss  Brattle  evidently  thought  him  a  bore  ;  and  fi 
nally  they  engaged  in  a  conversation  about  people 
of  whom  he  knew  nothing.  When  they  arrived  at 
the  cottage,  he  stayed  outside  and  held  the  horses 
absently.  He  knew  vaguely  that  they  were  calling 
on  the  Widow  Sproul,  with  whose  son  he  remem 
bered  once  having  a  fight.  Across  the  valley  was  an 
old  cider  mill,  in  front  of  which  he  could  see  a  cart 
standing,  and  a  horse  with  a  stumpy  red  tail.  For 


1/2  GUERNDALE. 

many  years  he  remembered  the  appearance  of  that 
horse's  tail. 

Coming  back,  things  were  a  little  better  ;  as  he 
talked  of  Phil  Symonds,  and  Phil  was  a  subject 
about  which  he  could  always  be  enthusiastic.  He 
felt  quite  pleased  to  monopolize  Annie's  conversa 
tion,  and  to  notice  that  even  Miss  Brattle  seemed  to 
listen  with  some  interest.  Still,  when  he  went  home, 
it  was  with  a  sense  of  emptiness  and  disappointment; 
his  horse's  nose  a  foot  from  the  ground. 

He  did  not  notice  old  Solomon  Bung,  who  sidled 
past  him,  with  a  rod,  as  usual.  That  worthy  seemed 
to  take  no  offence,  but  looked  at  him  solemnly,  with 
that  increase  of  wrinkles  about  the  corners  of  the 
eyes  which  served  the -purpose  of  a  smile  of  greet 
ing.  He  even  turned  to  look  back  at  him  once  or 
twice  after  he  had  passed. 

Days  soon  came,  however,  which  were  less  disap 
pointing.  Miss  Brattle  went  over  to  Lenox  for  a 
few  days,  and  Guy  and  Annie  had  long  walks  and 
rides — days  which  he  put  aside  in  his  memory  like 
sweet  sounds,  and  as  indescribable  in  words.  He 
grew  a  more  and  more  constant  visitor  at  the  Bonny- 
morts';  but  each  time,  on  first  meeting  Annie,  his 
constraint  seemed  more  marked.  She  was  always 
frank,  and  sunny,  and  kind  ;  but  he  felt  his  manners 
cold  and  silent,  and  his  conversation  forced.  Only 
after  a  fewr  minutes,  when  they  got  down  in  the 
woods  or  fields,  did  he  regain  the  old  simplicity  of 
companionship.  Many  times  Annie  would  notice 
his  reserve,  and  vex  him  by  asking,  with  sweet  sym 
pathy,  about  troubles  which  he  knew  wrere  imaginary. 


GUERNDALE.  1/3 

Once  she  took  his  hand  and  asked  him  anxiously  if 
she  had  offended  him.  His  lips  trembled,  but  he 
could  make  no  intelligent  answer.  He  drew  his 
hand  away  hastily  and  turned  away,  afraid  to  meet 
her  eye.  He  was  one-and-twenty  and  she  seventeen. 

One  afternoon  he  walked  with  her  to  see  their  old 
acquaintance,  Mandy  Shed.  Annie,  as  old  Sol  Bung 
expressed  it,  was  a  lady  as  women  used  to  be,  and  yet 
nat'ral  and  not  stuck  up  ;  not  so  Miss  Shed,  who 
kept  them  waiting  half  an  hour  while  she  donned  a 
blue  silk  and  caused  a  long  gold  chain  to  depend 
from  her  neck.  She  was  only  two  years  older  than 
Annie,  but  looked  already  thirty.  Her  eyes  were 
still  bright,  but  her  neck  long,  thin,  and  sallow,  and 
her  complexion  worn.  She  spoke  with  fretful  ani 
mation  of  the  lack  of  society  in  Dale,  and  said  it  was 
much  gayer  at  North  Adams.  There  were  some  city 
people  there. 

Poor  Mandy  !  the  world  had  not  gone  well  with 
her.  She  had  been  for  many  years  engaged  to  Ned 
Dench,  who  was  a  salesman  in  some  dry-goods  store 
in  the  city.  He  was  believed  to  be  doing  well  ;  had 
occasionally  returned  to  Dale,  showy  of  scarf-pin 
and  lavender  trousers  ;  but  his  visits  were  growing 
less  frequent,  and  it  was  popularly  considered  doubt 
ful  whether  the  long-postponed  marriage  would  take 
place  at  all.  Fifteen  hundred  a  year  didn't  seem 
so  much  in  Boston  as  it  did  in  Dale,  and  it  was 
reported  that  Dench  had  said  to  one  or  two  of  his 
bosom  friends  that  he  guessed  he  had  had  all  he 
wanted  of  that  girl.  Ned  was  a  rising  man,  they 
said,  admiringly,  as  he  drove  by  with  her  in  his 


1/4  GUERNDALE. 

buggy,  smoking  an  Havana  cigar.  Ned  secretly 
felt  that  Mandy  was  growing  old,  and,  if  he  married 
on  $1,500  a  year,  his  cigars  would  be  too  domestic 
for  his  taste. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  call,  and  would  have  been 
embarrassing  but  for  Annie's  tact  and  simple  man 
ners.  Miss  Shed's  voice  was  harsh,  and  her  accent 
voluble,  but  she  seemed  at  a  loss  for  conversation,  and 
her  manners  were  rude  in  the  attempt  to  avoid  cm- 
pressemcnt  or  any  appearance  of  seeming  flattered  at 
their  visit.  She  thought  she  might  stay  with  a  lady 
friend  in  Boston,  next  winter ;  who  had  boarded 
near  Dale,  that  summer.  She  was  very  intimate.  Did 
Miss  Bonnymort  know  her  ?  Her  father  was  John 
C.  Whalen,  of  Whalen,  Young  &  Skinner.  Mr. 
Dench  admired  her  very  much.  How  was  Mr. 
Dench  ?  Mr.  Guerndale  must  have  seen  him  in  Bos 
ton.  He  went  a  great  deal  into  society.  They  were 
very  superior  people — the  Whalens. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Nous  dissequons  Ic  Christ  au  pied  de  1'autel." — DE  MUSSET. 

DESPITE  these  occasional  new  moods  of  Guy's, 
and  Annie's  larger  knowledge  of  the  world, 
it  seemed  very  natural  to  both  of  them  to  fall  back  into 
the  old  relation  of  eight  years  agone.  Possibly  it  was 
an  attribute  of  both  characters  to  remain  the  same  ; 
to  alter  little  with  outer  circumstances.  Dale  itself 
was  much  changed,  however.  A  little  more  of  the 
old  life  was  gone,  a  little  more  of  the  new  had  crept 
in.  Old  Dr.  Grimstone  was  dead,  somewhat  to  the 
relief  of  his  parishioners.  Indeed,  his  decease  had 
possibly  saved  him  an  enforced  retirement  in  favor 
of  the  present  incumbent,  a  young  man  bred  on  the 
Western  Reserve  in  Ohio,  whom  an  exaggerated  esti 
mate  of  his  own  powers  had  led  from  the  paternal 
pork-raising  to  a  western  college,  thence  into  divin 
ity.  But  he  soon  left  the  fathers  of  the  church  for 
the  rising  suns  of  modern  thought.  Possibly  his 
early  cultivation  of  turnip  roots  had  led  him  to  rad 
ical  views  ;  or  else,  as  La  Rochefoucauld  says,  he  em 
braced  the  wrong  opinion  because  the  best  places 
were  already  taken  in  the  right  one.  He  called  him 
self  an  eclectic  ;  he  knew  the  existence  and  names  of 


176  GUERNDALE. 

many  things  ;  and  his  mind  had  hitherto  been  too 
fully  occupied  to  leave  him  time  for  turning  gentle 
man  by  the  way.  At  one  time  he  had  dabbled  in 
metaphysics  ;  but  this  requiring  too  much  mental  ex 
ertion — for  he  was  a  very  lazy  man — he  now  con 
tented  himself  with  the  positivists.  General  denial 
is  a  very  comfortable  mental  attitude.  In  his  ser 
mons  he  delighted  in  putting  the  boldest  assertions 
of  negation  in  their  crudest  forms.  Nevertheless,  he 
kept  on  easy  terms  with  the  Deity.  He  would  occa 
sionally  mention  Christ  with  good-natured  patron 
age,  and  made  friendly  allowance  for  the  vagaries  of 
the  Evangelists.  When  he  treated  earnestly  of 
things  spiritual  it  was  in  quoting  from  Buddha,  Con 
fucius,  or  the  Koran.  He  read  large  quantities  of 
verse  in  his  sermons,  which  were  also  full  of  meta 
phors  derived  from  business  and  trade.  He  was  act 
ively  interested  in  politics,  affected  worldliness  in 
dress  and  manners,  and  hated  to  be  taken  for  a  clergy 
man.  Pie  was  very  popular  in  the  parish,  prominent 
in  pic-nics  and  church  dancing  parties,  and  a  capital 
actor  in  private  theatricals.  Wine  and  cards  he  con 
sidered  immoral,  but,  to  avoid  the  charge  of  phari- 
seeism,  he  frequented  smoking  cars  and  familiarized 
himself  with  bar-rooms.  He  was  fond  of  taking  the 
maidens  of  his  flock  to  drive  in  his  buggy  on  Satur 
day  afternoons,  but  his  attentions  were  so  universal 
that  scandal  never  attached. 

The  Bonnymorts  had  once  invited  him  ex  officio  to 
tea,  where  he  asked  "Miss  Annie"  to  go  to  drive 
with  him,  inquired  who  her  gentlemen  friends  were 
in  Dale,  sought  fiercely  to  argue  with  Guy  for  Tyn- 


GUERNDALE. 

dall  against  the  Kantian  school,  and  contrasted  the 
enlightenment  of  his  own  parish  with  the  dark  and 
superstitious  barbarism  that  still  afflicted  countries 
groaning  under  the  Romish  Church.  He  regretted 
that  he  never  had  been  across  the  "  pond,"  and  that 
he  had  always  resided  in  the  country  since  he  com 
menced  his  mission.  He  told  Mr.  Bonnymort,  who 
was  an  Episcopalian,  that  the  Anglican  Church  was 
effete. 

Besides  the  changes  wrought  by  this  servant  of  the 
Lord,  there  were  others.  Gas  had  been  introduced 
into  the  town.  Some  new  manufactories  had  been 
built,  and  there  had  been  a  considerable  influx  of 
French- Canadian  and  Chinese  working-people.  The 
employers  of  this  cheap  human  energy  had  erected 
for  themselves  new  French-roofed  houses,  usually 
prominent  of  tower  or  cupola,  surrounded  by  well- 
shaven  little  grass-plots,  iron  statues  painted  white, 
and  black  asphalt  walks.  These  were  the  prominent 
parishioners  of  the  Rev.  M.  Frank  Hanna,  and  had 
chiefly  contributed  to  the  building  of  the  vestry — 
the  new  vestry.  This  institution  was  in  theory  a 
Sunday-school  for  the  children  of  the  parish  ;  but 
its  more  prominent  use  was  for  winter  dancing-par 
ties,  raffles,  and  private  theatricals,  when  the  small 
pulpit  was  removed  to  make  place  for  the  stage. 
Mr.  Bonnymort  spoke  of  it  irreverently  as  the  "Ca 
sino." 

Most  of  the  younger  people  whom  Guy  and  Annie 

remembered  had  left  the  town.     Some  few  of  the 

girls  had  been  married,  usually  to  strangers  ;  some 

of  the  ones  so  married  had  returned  home  ;  others 

8* 


178  GUERNDALE. 

were  spoken  of  vaguely  as  "living  in  the  city." 
Nearly  all  the  young  men  were  also  in  the  city  ;  a 
few  were  said  to  be  "  smart  fellows"  and  doing  well. 
Guy  learned  these  things  from  Solomon  Bung.  Old 
Solomon  Bung  took  a  somewhat  cynical  view  of 
matters.  He  reminded  Guy  a  little  of  Norton  Ran 
dolph. 

Guy  went  to  church,  the  first  Sunday,  and  found 
a  few  of  the  faces  he  remembered.  The  church  it 
self  was  more  out  of  repair  than  of  yore  ;  but  the 
outside  had  a  new  coat  of  lilac  paint.  He  noticed 
the  plaster  dropping  from  the  ceiling  in  some  places. 
The  service  was  quite  different  from  that  of  old  Dr. 
Grimstone.  It  began  with  a  quartet,  adapted  from 
the  famous  sextet  in  "  Rigoletto  ; "  a  fine  piece  of 
music,  but  not  well  rendered.  Then  Rev.  M.  Frank 
Hanna  rose,  in  a  tight  walking-coat  and  wispy  black 
tie,  and  addressed,  in  confidential  tones,  a  somewhat 
indefinite  Deity.  This  was  the  prayer. 

Mr.  Hanna  then  read  a  passage  from  Max  Miiller's 
version  of  one  of  the  Vedas,  and  the  choir  joined  in 
a  hymn.  There  was  a  cheerful  rhythm  to  this,  which 
reminded  Guy  irresistibly  of  a  college  chorus.  Af 
ter  it,  the  congregation  settled  themselves  comfort 
ably,  but,  strange  to  say,  they  seemed  alert  and 
interested — almost  as  if  they  were  at  a  theatre. 
Nothing  of  the  old  sleepy  boredom  was  visible. 

Mr.  Hanna,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  prayed  for 
inspiration  "to  the  same  Great  Spirit  who  inspired 
Shakespeare — to  the  same  mind  that  breathed  in 
the  brain  of  Newton — to  the  same  love  that  pervaded 
the  heart  of  George  Eliot,  of  Joan  of  Arc,  of  Christ." 


GUERNDALE. 

Guy's  breath  was  quite  taken  away  at  this,  which 
was  rapidly  succeeded  by  the  following  sermon. 
Reading  no  text,  the  minister  began  by  taking  his 
open  watch  in  his  hand. 

"  If  there  be  a  God,  I  give  Him  thirty  seconds  to 
strike  me  dead. 

"  If  there  be  a  God,  I  give  Him  thirty  seconds  to 
strike  me  dead." 

"  So  spake  the  French  atheist.  No  doubt  it  was  a 
mad  and  foolish  challenge.  Yet,  if  there  had  been 
a  God  such  as  the  fancy  of  olden  people  pictured — 
a  God  to  love,  to  hate,  to  be  angry,  to  be  jealous,  a 
Deity  revengeful  and  fond  of  praise,  vain  and  vain 
glorious — such  a  God  would  have  taken  him  at  his 
word.  The  Bible  says,  I  am  a  jealous  God.  The  Bible 
is  wrong."  And*  here  Mr.  Hanna  made  a  pause, 
which  added  to  the  boldness  of  the  assertion.  "At 
least,  the  scribe  who  copied  the  ancient  Hebrew 
writings  made  a  mistake.  We  should  not  be  fettered 
too  closely  by  noun  and  verb.  When  I  find  such 
crude  statements  as  this,  I  say  the  Devil's  in  it.  I 
mean  the  printer's  devil,  or  copyist.  For  the  only 
devil  is  the  devil  of  our  own  carelessness,  our  own 
weakness.  The  other  was  a  medieval  myth. 

"  And  yet,  this  remark  of  the  Frenchman's  was  a 
notable  one.  As  an  indication;  it  struck  the  mod 
ern  balance  of  mind  ;  that  balance  of  mind  which 
only  bigots  call  disbelief.  It  was  a  noteworthy  appli 
cation  of  inductive  reasoning  to  the  misconceptions  of 
established  churches.  Let  us  hesitate  before  we  fol 
low  all  this  book  has  to  say.  For  the  Bible  is  a  book, 
like  another — in  most  parts,  better ;  in  some  parts, 


l80  GUERNDALE. 

worse.  It  is,  perhaps,  founded  on  many  other  books. 
If  it  was  a  revelation  of  God,  it  does  not  follow  that 
it  was  the  only  one.  '  It  was  written  by  men.  Grant 
that  they  were  inspired — so  was  Plato,  Shakespeare, 
Mahomet,  Swedenborg  ;  so  is  George  Eliot,  Longfel 
low,  Herbert  Spencer.  And  Christ  was  a  good  man. 
Yes — Christ  was  a  better  man  than  Herbert  Spencer. 
Christ  was  the  most  divine  form  our  glorious  hu 
manity  has  yet  assumed.  Are  we  then  to  follow  him 
in  all  tilings  ?  Shall  we  not  render  unto  Caesar  the 
things  that  are  Caesar's  ?  And  I  say,  my  friends, 
my  brethren,  my  fellow-seekers  for  God — for  who 
am  I  that  I  should  stand  above  you  on  this  platform 
and  tell  you  where  to  find  Him,  when  every  one  of 
you  may  learn  as  well  as  I  ?  My  brethren,  put 
Christ  and  Herbert  Spencer  side  by  side  and  tell  me 
which  could  teach  the  other  most?  If  I  follow  the 
one  always  with  my  heart,  shall  I  follow  him  always 
with  my  brain  ?  " 

Mr.  Hanna  then  went  on  to  relate  in  brief  the  pro 
cess  of  the  evolution  of  the  world  ;  and  how  the 
masses  of  self-conscious  matter  that  we  call  brain 
had  gradually  grown  and  broadened  and  become 
complex,  until  each  was  a  microcosm  of  the  universe 
outside.  Was  it  not  possible  that  the  Bible,  or  a 
greater  part  of  it,  was  meant  for  weaker  and  more 
childish  minds  ?  It  was  designed  by  God,  no  doubt ; 
but  was  it  sure  that  God  intended  us  always  to  be 
satisfied  with  this  primitive  statement  ?  Might  not 
the  Scriptures  be  a  sort  of  primer,  until  we  could 
read  alone  ?  Our  minds,  too,  were  made  by  God. 
At  all  events,  they  evolved  from  protoplasms  under 


GUERNDALE.  l8l 

his  superintendence.  The  real  intention  of  God — if 
the  Almighty  could  be  supposed  to  have  intention — 
was  to  make  the  human  mind  a  higher  sort  of  Bible, 
and  the  truer  gospel  for  us  modern  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  the  writings  and  expressions  of  this  mind. 

Nay,  more,  it  was  possible  that  even  some  of  the 
morals  of  the  Bible  were  provisional — a  sort  of  ethi 
cal  mother's  milk,  from  which  we  might  be  weaned. 
It  was  obvious  that  this  was  the  case  in  some  things. 
Modern  experience  had  found  it  necessary  to  sup 
plement  the  seventh  commandment  with  divorce  laws. 
The  provision  regarding  graven  images  had  become 
meaningless.  Again,  the  economical  doctrines  of  the 
New  Testament  would  not  hold  water  at  the  present 
dir-.  It  was  clear  they  would  result  in  total  pauperi 
zation.  In  fact,"many  forms  of  private  charity  are 
directly  opposed  to  the  great  law  of  the  survival  of 
the  fittest.  Many  other  texts  might  be  cited  which 
required  to  be  taken  with  a  grain  of  salt.  How  would 
they  go  with  the  immortal  truth  that  all  progress  con 
sists  in  a  change  from  indefinite,  incoherent  homo 
geneity  to  definite,  coherent  heterogeneity  ?  Love 
one  another,  for  instance — as  a  statement  of  ethical 
truth,  this  is  bold  and  crude.  We  are  required  by 
the  discoveries  of  modern  thought  to  love  one 
another  only  under  certain  conditions  and  limita 
tions. 

"No,"  continued  Mr.  Hanna,  "life  is  a  struggle. 
What  \ve  want  is  adaptation  to  our  environment — 
which  we  call  smartness — and  strength.  The  smart 
man — the  acute,  ingenious,  intellectual  Yankee  suc 
ceeds,  and  deserves  to  succeed.  In  so-called  charity^ 


182  GUERNDALE. 

we  simply  bolster  up  the  weak,  at  the  expense  of  the 
strong.  We  discourage  true  merit.  Let  them  die. 
It  is  right  and  merciful  they  should.  But,  my 
friends," — and  here  Mr.  Hannagrew  eloquent, — "  let 
us  remember  there  is  one  thing  more.  Sympathy, 
sympathy  is  the  bright  star  of  the  future  that  is  to 
render  this  world  a  heaven  and  reconcile  us  to  the 
thought  that  there  may  be  no  other.  Sympathy. 
Oh,  my  friends,  my  dear  friends,  it  was  lately  my 
fortune  to  come  from  the  metropolis  in  a  railroad 
car  behind  a  man  whom  former  times  would  have 
called  a  felon.  He  had  committed  financial  irreg 
ularities — he  was  a  forger.  The  gyves  were  on  his 
wrist,  and  at  his  side  there  sat  a  myrmidon  of  the 
law.  Many  and  severe  were  the  looks  that  were  cast 
at  him  askance  by  the  other  occupants  of  the  car- 
deep  and  rankling,  they  entered  into  the  sensitive 
soul  of  the  man  before  me.  Bright  sympathy  sprang 
warm  in  my  breast.  I  thought  that,  but  for  my  envi 
ronment,  I  might  have  been  as  he.  He,  too,  may 
have  sought  to  be  strong.  As  he  pressed  his  burn 
ing  hand  to  his  fevered  brow,  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  sweet  home  fireside  for  which  he  had  done  this 
thing — the  dear  wife,  the  woodbine-covered  cottage, 
the  cherubs  clustering  around  the  hearth.  The  tears 
sprang  unbidden  to  my  eyes,  I  thought  how  many 
in  the  car  might  merit  shame  as  much  as  he.  I 
thought  of  all  he  had  sought  to  do  in  the  conflict 
of  this  world.  Ah,  my  friends,  let  us  be  sure  that 
what  we  call  our  laws  are  right,  before  we  condemn 
with  moral  obloquy  this  man.  In  the  struggle  for 
existence,  he  had  failed — let  us  take  warning  by  him. 


GUERNDALE.  183 

But  society  was  the  true  sinner — not  this  man.  And 
it  was  the  fault  of  us  around  him  that  he  sat  where 
he  did  that  day.  We,  to-morrow,  may  be  where  this 
man  was  to-day.  Let  us  remove  the  temptation  for 
crime,  and  let  us  give  the  criminal  our  sympathy ! 
Faith,  hope,  and  love — and  the  greatest  of  these 
three  is  love  !  We  are  all  equal.  There  is  a  cursed 
aristocracy  of  virtue  as  well  as  one  of  rank.  What 
is  sin  ?  A  faulty  adaptation  to  chance  environments. 
O  sinner,  disdain  not  the  sinner  !  " 

Mr.  H anna's  voice  here  sank  into  a  hoarse,  impres 
sive  whisper  ;  then  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
by  way  of  benediction,  and  the  service  closed. 

Guy  was  alone  that  morning,  Mrs.  Guerndale  hav 
ing  been  unusually  feeble,  and,  reflecting  on  a  few 
inconsistencies  he  thought  he  had  observed  in  the 
sermon,  he  walked  slowly  from  the  church  into  the 
churchyard  across  the  way. 

Here  he  threw  himself  on  a  bank  of  brown  pine- 
needles  near  the  old  oblong  tomb,  topped  with  the 
argent,  bend  sable  of  the  Guerndale  arms.  And  so,  as 
he  sat  there,  somewhat  gloomy,  Mr.  Bonnymort  and 
Annie  passed  by  ;  and  she,  seeing  him  there  alone, 
and  divining  his  mood,  did  not  stop,  but  bowed  with 
such  sweet  courtesy  that  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  all 
the  bounds  of  happiness.  So  he  left  the  village  and 
the  people,  and  went  into  the  wood,  for  a  long  ram 
ble,  thinking  of  her  ;  and  there  by  Weedy  Pond  he 
met  old  Sol,  sitting  just  above  the  lily-pads,  on  the 
sunny  side  of  a  rock,  and  blinking  at  a  turtle  on  a 
log. 

"Why,  Sol — not  at  church  ?"  cried  Guy,  gayly. 


184  GUERNDALE. 

"Wa-al,  no,  Mister  Gun'l,  I  ain't." 

"Why,  how's  that,  Sol?  I  thought  you  were  one 
of  the  old  stand-bys  ?  " 

"  Wa'al,  Gun'l — ye  see,  I  ain't  so  powerful  sot  on 
religion  ;  but  I  do  like  to  hear  a  preacher  thet  is  ; 
an'  when  my  wife  died,  I  did  take  a  sorter  spell  o' 
goin'  to  meetin' — didn't  somehow  like  to  hev  the  old 
pew  empty,  ye  know.  But  I  dunno.  I  sorter  get 
more  comfort  out  o'  God's  works  than  I  do  out  o' 
that  there  young  man.  The  fact  is,  when  I  experi 
ence  salvation  I  take  it  straight.  Damned  ef  I  don't. 
Bonnymort's  folks  to  hum  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Guy.  "  I  believe  they're  here  for  the 
summer." 

"  Wanter  know,"  said  Sol. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"Ni  aimer  ni  hair  :  c'est  la  moitie  de  la  sagesse  huraaine;  ne  rien  dire  et  ne 
rien  croire  :  c'est  1'autre  moitie.  Mais  avec  quel  plaisir  on  tourne  le  dos  a  un 
monde  qui  exige  une  pareille  sagesse  !  " — SCHOPENHAUEK. 

I  SUPPOSE  it  must  have  happened  that  night  of 
the  walk  in  the  forest.  The  summer  was  then 
nearly  over  ;  two  months  Guy  had  been  in  Dale.  All 
his  other  plans  had  been  given  up.  None  of  our 
enemies  deceive  us  half  so  perfectly  as  we  deceive 
ourselves  ;  many  and  ingenious  were  the  theories 
which  Guy  developed  in  his  letters  to  Norton  Ran 
dolph,  to  explain  his  long  lingering  in  Dale.  Per 
haps  Guy  himself  hardly  knew  why,  though  he  saw 
Annie  Bonnymort  so  often.  But  whoso  wished  to 
know  what  thing  love  was,  might  have  marked  him 
when  he  met  her,  and  marvelled  at  the  tremor  of 
his  eyes.  And  it  befell,  this  day  of  the  walk  in  the 
forest,  of  which  I  speak,  as  often  in  such  cases  comes 
to  pass,  that  their  wanderings  \vere  much  prolonged  ; 
and  they  came  to  a  rocky  hill,  rising  out  of  the  for 
est,  whence  they  saw  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

Now  Guy  had  finally  bound  himself  to  go  to  New 
port  on  the  day  following,  which  was  a  Monday, 
and  Miss  Bonnymort  was  to  leave  on  the  same  day 
for  some  autumn  visits.  And  through  this  last  walk 


1 86  GUERNDALE. 

Guy  had  been  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  incomplete 
ness,  as  of  something  left  undone  ;  yet  knew  he  not 
what  it  was,  nor  how  best  to  set  himself  to  work  to 
remedy  it.  And  having  been  thinking  much  of 
this  for  many  days,  the  approach  of  the  last  evening- 
made  him  curiously  anxious  to  accomplish  what 
thing  it  was  that  lacked.  Still,  beyond  a  strange 
yearning  that  he  might  be  always  in  her  mind  after 
he  had  left  her,  he  was  conscious  of  no  special  thing 
he  wished  to  do.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  ;  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  for  she  was  going  too,  and  he 
thought  of  it  not  often.  He  could  easily  forego  her 
bodily  presence  ;  but  her  mind  to  him  was  a  king 
dom  in  which  he  wished  to  rule. 

Now  it  happened  that,  in  helping  her  up  the  face 
of  the  rock  (which  was  smooth  and  round  and  mossy 
and  covered  with  pine-needles),  it  became  necessary 
for  him  to  give  her  his  hand.  This  was  a  situatiop 
which  he  had  hitherto  evaded  ;  but  to-day  it  was  im 
perative,  for  the  place  was  very  slippery.  Moreover, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  hold  her  hand  in  hh 
some  moments,  and  even  to  impress  a  firmer  press 
ure  on  it  when  they  came  to  places  where  the  rock 
wras  steep.  All  this  he  did  courteously,  as  became  ? 
cavalier,  and  yet  he  found  the  doing  of  it  most  un 
comfortable.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  some  dumb 
force  within  him,  struggling  for  utterance,  yet  elab 
orately  pent  back,  and  this  affair  of  the  hands  weak 
ened  the  barriers.  Although  her  hand  was  very  soft, 
and  white,  and  warm,  and  far  from  an  unplcasan. 
thing  to  touch  on  a  cool  autumn  day,  so  much  sc 
that  when  he  dropped  it  hastily,  as  they  reached  the 


CJUERNDALE.  l8/ 

top,  he  did  so  with  some  reluctance.  And  there  was 
a  dear  little  wrinkle  where  the  hand  bent  forward  at 
the  wrist. 

They  sat  down  upon  the  crisp,  gray  moss,  and 
watched  the  sunset  ;  that  is,  Annie  did.  Guy  looked 
mostly  at  the  ever-varying  expression  of  her  lips. 
Her  eyes,  too,  were  deep,  and  still  and  soft,  like  the 
haze  in  a  distant  mountain  valley,  and  the  ends  of 
the  brown  lashes,  just  where  they  curled  upward, 
were  gilded  by  the  last  rays  of  sunlight.  So  he 
looked  silently  at  the  sweet  face,  no  longer  child, 
nor  yet  woman,  and  saw  the  sweet  white  soul  that 
dwelt  behind  the  eyes,  living  in  a  light  of  love  and 
trust,  and  little  wondered  at  so  beautiful  a  face, 
moulded  by  the  soul  within.  Here  the  eyes  turned 
upon  him,  clear  and  frank,  and  his  own  fell  in  much 
confusion. 

"  Guy,  why  are  you  so  strange  ?  Sometimes  I  feel 
as  if  I  scarcely  knew  you.  You  are  so  different  from 
what  you  used  to  be.  You  are  so  formal,  and  far  off. 
Not  since  you  first  tumbled  into  my  pond "' 

"  My  pond  !  "  laughed  he. 

"  Our  pond,"  said  she.  "  Not  since  then  have  you 
been  as  you  are  now.  Dear  Guy,"  she  went  on, 
touching  his  hands  earnestly,  "  please  tell  me  !  Have 
I  offended  you  ?  Is  anything  wrong  ?  Have  you 
any  troubles  ?  " 

"  '  Our  pond,'  "  he  was  thinking.     "  Ours — " 

"Why  are  you  so  silent  and  indifferent  ?  Do  be 
what  you  used  to  be,  when  we  wandered  about  these 
old  valleys — don't  you  remember  ? — like  the  babes  in 
the  woods,  and  I  used  to  think  you  were  so  brave 


1 88  GUERNDALE. 

and  manly,  because  you  did  not  mind  snakes  and 
spiders,  and — 

"And  tumbling  into  brooks  !"  laughed  he,  ner 
vously.  "  Seriously,  Miss  B Annie,  I  have  not 

changed  since  then  in  many  Avays.  Less  than  you 
can  imagine much  less  than  you  believe." 

Guy  paused  a  moment,  and  began  scratching  off 
the  moss  with  a  pointed  stone.  It  was  an  old  flint 
arrow-head  ;  some  Indian  had  shot  it  up  into  the  air 
a  century  or  so  before,  and  it  had  fallen  here.  Guy 
did  not  notice  its  shape,  but  went  on,  hurriedly, 
"  Do  you  remember  the  last  day  before  I  went  to 
school  ? " 

"  Do  I  remember  ?  Why  of  course  I  remember, 
Guy,"  said  Annie  warmly,  somewhat  too  warmly,  he 
thought,  considering  the  difficulty  he  found  in  re 
minding  her  of  Avhat  he  meant,  and  the  way  the 
doing  of  it  made  his  heart  beat.  "  We  spent  all  the 
day  together,  finding  the  places  where  we  kept 
house  among  the  rocks,  and  then  in  the  evening  I 
cried  because  you  had  to  go.v 

"You  asked  me  never  to  forget,  and  I  promised 
that  I  never  would." 

"  Did  you  ?"  said  she.  "  Did  I  ?  Yes,  I  remember 
— it  was  up  by  the  big  pond  in  the  woods.  Well, 
we  have  not  forgotten,  have  we,  Guy  ? "  she  added, 
laughing.  "  Let  us  part  so  to-day  and  always  be 
friends  just  the  same." 

"Always,"  he  said,  and  then,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"Always,  always — for  me." 

"  How  nice  it  will  be  to  have  you  in  Boston  next 
winter !  You  must  come  to  our  house  very  often. 


GUERNDALE.  189 

See !  the  sun  is  setting — oh,  look  at  that  long  pur 
ple  cloud  drawn  like  a  scarf  about  the  Greylock 
mountains !  Ah,  how  lovely —  '  and  the  dreamy 
look  came  once  more  into  her  eyes  and  wound  itself 
into  his  heart. 

So  the  bright  clouds  faded  and  they  watched  the 
colors  go  ;  then  they  looked  in  one  another's  eyes. 
Guy  trembled  slightly  ;  but  this  time  bore  the  look 
fully,  nor  ever  flinched.  Annie  was  pleased  at  this, 
and  smiled  ;  and  a  star  came  up  in  the  east  over  the 
lower  land,  and  a  whippoorwill  down  in  the  valley 
spoke  of  the  night.  It  was  time  for  them  to  go  ;  so 
they  walked  home,  talking  of  old  sports  and  scenes, 
that  were  to  Guy  as  if  they  had  been  always,  and 
yet  to  him  would  never  more  be  old.  I  think  Mr. 
Bonnymort  saw  them  coming  slowly  over  the  lawn  ; 
but  they  said  good-by  in  the  old  verandah,  and 
Annie  looked  up  to  him  and  said,  "  So,  Guy — we 
are  just  as  we  used  to  be,  are  we  not?  We  have 

always  been  like  a  brother  and  sister,  you  know 

She  stopped,  for  here  Guy  bent  down  and  kissed 
her,  and  then  felt  he  could  not  speak  again,  but 
broke  hastily  from  her  and  went  out  into  the  even 
ing. 

He  could  bear  no  four  walls  that  night.  The  open 
sky  seemed  a  lodging  scarce  vast  enough  for  his 
heart.  That  was  but  one  throb  in  the  mighty  pulse 
of  nature — dear  mother  nature,  based  all  upon  love, 
love  everywhere  !  love  in  the  stars  that  looked  down 
upon  him  from  the  soft  quiet  sky  ;  love  in  the  winds, 
in  the  faint  sweet  noises  of  the  night  ;  love  in  and 
through  the  whole  world.  The  beauty  of  the  night, 


GUERNDALE. 

the  beauty  of  thought,  of  life  ;  he  was  part  of  all, 
and  they  were  part  of  his  soul,  and  Annie's  was  the 
fairest  of  it  all.  His  soul  and  hers  were  far  apart, 
yet  they  were  one,  sharing  in  the  beauty  of  all  things 
that  lived.  And  all  things  did  live,  nothing  was 
dead  ;  the  smooth  broad  meadows  were  alive,  and 
the  dark  hills  bending  to  the  lighter  sky.  Ah,  the 
fair  world  ! 

So  he  walked  dreaming  through  his  favorite  path, 
and  as  he  came  around  the  brow  of  some  low  hill, 
there  before  him  lay  a  sea— a  sea  of  silver  mist,  and 
all  the  world  was  silvern,  still  and  silvern  ;  silvern  in 
the  white  light,  rimmed  with  the  purple  of  the  hills 
and  sky  ;  a  deep  black-purple  where  the  silver  points 
of  stars  shone  through.  All  below  him  and  around 
him  lay  the  moonlit  mist,  filling  all  the  valley  mead 
ows,  sifting  softly  through  the  little  woody  hollows, 
where  great  black  shapes  of  trees  loomed  up,  and 
higher  hills  pent  up  the  fleecy  cloud,  and  through  it 
came  the  rifts  of  evening  winds.  He  knew  not  why 
the  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  but  threw  himself  upon 
the  last  mossy  slope  below  the  forest,  and  murmured 
Che  e  bella,  che  e  bella,  in  vague  memory  of  some  old 
Italian  rhyme,  and  lay  there  while  the  hours  rolled 
over  his  heart,  and  thought  how  it  was  love 

"  Che  primo  mosso  quelle  cose  belle." 

Slowly  his  passion  throbbed  away  into  sweet  calm  ; 
his  happy  heart  grew  silent,  and  he  thought  more 
soberly  of  all  he  had  to  do,  of  all  that  he  should  be 
to  win  her.  Of  her  love  he  had  little  doubt  :  her 
soul  was  very  love  and  tenderness  ;  he  must  first  de- 


GUERNDALE.  IQI 

serve  her  love,  the  winning  it  would  be  a  later  thing. 
And  so,  with  higher  vision  than  he  ever  felt  before, 
he  planned  for  himself  a  straight  pathway  through 
the  world,  that  he  might  not  be  ashamed  to  lead  her 
with  him  there. 

Then  he  steeled  himself  to  sober  thought,  as  he 
fancied,  and  to  common  sense.  He  felt  clearly  that 
romance  and  sentiment  were  but  slight  basis  for  hap 
piness.  Yes,  he  would  succeed  ;  he  would  do  this, 
and  that.  He  would  not  speak  to  her  for  along  time 
yet — a  year  or  more.  She  was  but  a  child  ;  if,  as  he 
hoped,  she  was  fond  of  him,  he  ought  not  to  take 
advantage  of  her  affections  ;  he  should  wait  until 
she  had  seen  something  of  the  world.  Yet  he  had 
ki-sed  her  !  His  heart  cried  "Ah,  Annie,  Annie " 

Grave  Guy  !  Sober,,  thoughtful  Guy  !  His  sober 
thoughts  took  no  note  of  time,  nor  did  his  mature 
consideration  show  him  where  he  was,  and  the  short 
night  went  by,  and  a  ray  of  dawn  came  through  the 
wood  and  fell  upon  his  face,  lying  fast  asleep  be 
neath  an  oak. 


Book   (Eljtrir. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

"  So,  since  the  world  has  thus  far  whirled 

Without  change  of  direction, 
Like  Buddha  I'll  sit  in  th'e  sky 
And  think  on  my  perfection." 

A  YEAR  passed  by.  Norton  Randolph  was 
abroad,  whence  he  wrote  frequently  to  urge 
Guy  to  join  him.  Vansittart  was  prominent  in  New 
York  and  Newport.  Bixby  was  believed  to  be  lying 
perdii  in  Paris.  Others  said  he  was  travelling  about 
the  Continent  in  chase  of  some  female  feu-follct. 
Strang  was  studying  civil  engineering  in  Boston, 
and,  to  Guy's  surprise,  asked  the  latter  to  take  rooms 
with  him,  which  he  did,  and  they  got  along  surpris 
ingly  well  together.  Brattle,  after  a  brief  tour 
abroad,  had  returned  with  a  large  consignment  of 
London  clothing  and  Vienna  meerschaum,  and  was 
leading  that  group  of  callow  youth  which  in  most 
American  cities  constitutes  society.  Philip  Symonds 
was  in  Paris,  and  Guy  felt  very  lonely  without  his 
old  friend.  Phil's  great  hearty  laugh,  his  healthy 
view  of  things  in  general,  had  grown  to  hold  a  large 
place  in  Guy's  life  ;  indeed  he  had  been  used  to  sup- 


GUERNDALE.  193 

plying  any  deficiency  in  his  own  animal  spirits  from 
Phil's  superabundance. 

However,  if  Philip  wrote  but  seldom,  great  reports 
of  his  doings  in  Paris  were  brought  home  by  other 
men  ;  and  it  was  generally  understood  that  this 
young  descendant  of  the  Puritans  was  making  it  un 
commonly  lively  on  the  Boulevards. 

Guy  had  worked  through  that  year  with  an  inten 
sity  of  purpose  that  was  too  real  for  him  to  be  very 
conscious  of  it.  He  had  occasionally  seen  Annie 
Bonnymort,  but  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  utter 
a  word  of  love  to  her,  scarcely  even  to  think  of  her 
as  the  woman  he  loved,  though  he  thought  of  her 
always.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  take  advantage  of 
her  youth  and  inexperience  of  men  and  the  world  ; 
besides,  he  must  wait  until  he  had  at  least  shown  that 
he  might  prove  worthy  of  her.  So,  if  many  flowers 
were  sent  to  her,  it  was  not  from  Guy  ;  if  any  one 
man  danced  many  cotillions  with  her,  it  was  not  he  ; 
if  any  one  talked  sentiment  with  her  (though  it  was 
not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  she  seeming  above  and  be 
yond  "flirtation"),  Guy  did  not.  His  manner  to 
ward  her  was  indeed  marked  and  different  from  his 
manner  with  others  ;  for  it  was  frank  and  simple  al 
most  to  bluntness.  He  told  her  his  deepest  thoughts 
with  those  which  were  half  in  earnest,  and  showed 
her  his  weakest  with  his  strongest  side  ;  nor  ever 
sought  to  flatter  her  or  to  impress  her  with  his  own 
merit.  But,  had  she  demanded  it,  he  would  have 
shown  his  soul  to  her  as  calmly  as  his  photograph. 
For,  he  felt,  if  there  were  things  in  his  heart  or  mind  to 
render  him  unworthy  of  her,  it  would  be  false  to  hide 


IQ4  GUERNDALE. 

them.  She  should  love  him  as  he  truly  was,  or  not  at 
all.  So  he  only  veiled  his  love  from  her.  Perhaps 
in  doing  this,  he  veiled  the  larger  part  of  himself. 

With  Philip,  however,  he  could  freely  talk,  sure 
of  his  hearty  sympathy  and  strong  entourage ment. 
The  year  before,  when  Philip  went  away,  they  sat 
through  many  a  long  evening.  And  so,  speaking  of 
their  old  school  days,  and  quiet  Dale,  and  Annie, 
what  more  easy  than  to  pour  his  fears  and  hopes  in 
Philip's  friendly  ears  ?  Indeed,  he  told  him  every 
thing — as  he  had  told  him  all  from  childhood  up — • 
and  Phil  had  laiighed  good-humoredly  at  his  ear 
nestness,  and  advised  him  to  "go  in  and  win,  old 
boy."  And  Guy  looked  at  his  lusty  hero,  and  thought 
how  often  Phil  had  stood  by  him  and  what  a  fine  fel 
low  he  was,  and  wished  he  could  be  like  him,  to  win 
Annie's  love.  Then  Phil  had  gone  to  England,  and 
Guy  had  not  liked  to  put  his  thoughts  on  paper, 
even  to  Philip  ;  so  nothing  had  been  said  between 
them  since. 

Annie  also  went  away  this  summer,  and  Guy  did 
not  sec  her  for  many  months  ;  but  now  and  then  a 
white  letter  came,  in  firm,  fine  hand-writing,  that 
Guy  read  oftener,  I  fear,  than  even  the  books  on  ge 
ology  he  used  that  summer  with  his  scientific  explor 
ing  party  in  Western  Virginia. 

Randolph  returned  from  Europe  in  September  ;  so 
it  happened  that  Guy  made  him  a  visit  in  Newport 
when  he  came  back  from  the  South.  And  one  au 
tumn  afternoon  Randolph,  with  the  clear  fair  face, 
drooping  moustache,  and  slight  habitual  smile,  and 
Guy,  with  bronzed  cheeks  'and  a  big  brown  beard, 


GUERNDALK.  195 

were  seated  in  a  two-wheeled  cart,  taking  the  four 
o'clock  drive  on  Bellevue  Avenue.  Guy  had  just 
arrived,  and  Randolph  was  very  glad  to  see  him, 
though  he  greeted  him  with  his  suave,  matter-of- 
course  manner,  as  if  they  had  parted  yesterday. 
Naturally,  they  had  much  to  talk  about,  and  where, 
better  than  bowling  along  amid  green  lanes  and 
flowers  with  a  prospect  of  the  sea  (and  a  cigar)  in 
the  distance  ? 

"  So,  Guy,  you  never  came  abroad  ?  " 

"Oh!  no.  I  had  no  time.  I — I  should  have  liked 
to.  Perhaps  I  shall  go  to  Freiberg,  next  year." 

"  I  saw  a  great  many  of  the  fellows  over  there — 
Brattle,  Bixby,  Phil  Symonds.  I  believe  he  sailed 
f L  r  home  the  other  day." 

"  Did  he,  really  !  How  jolly  !  Phil  hasn't  Avritten 
for  months, and  I  began  to  worry  about  him." 

"  They  say  he  has  been  shying  the  paternal  ducats 
pretty  freely  about  Paris.  But,  Guy,  how  you've 
changed  —waked  up,  braced  up  !  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  become  quorum  pars  magna  as  to  these  things 
about  you  ?  " 

"Ah,  Norton  !  Haven't  you  got  over  your  dawd 
ling  with  life  yet  ?  I  think  all  we  fellows  were  great 
fools  with  our  callow  cynicism.  It  was  merely  an 
excuse  for  laziness." 

"Ah?" 

"  I  tell  you  what,  old  fellow,  active  life  is  the  thing 
after  all.  Even  ambition  isn't  half  a  bad  motive." 

"Oh  !" 

"Where  should  we  have  been  if  our  fathers  had 
thought  and  acted  as  we  pretended  to  do  ?  " 


1 96  GUERNDALE. 

"Why,  in  that  case  our  fathers  wouldn't  have  left 
any  children,  that's  certain,"  said  Randolph.  "  Our 
noble  selves  would  still  have  been  in  the  divine  nebula 
of  the  possible.  But  what  lias  happened  ?  Have 
you  experienced  religion  ?  Grown  avaricious  ?  pa 
triotic  ?  Want  to  go  to  Congress  ? " 

"  No,  none  of  these.  But  I  have  grown  older— 
"  Reconciled  yourself  to  conventional  humbug." 
Here  Mr.  Randolph  stretched  himself  lazily  out,  and 
went  on.  "The  achievement  of  immortality,  my 
son,  is  nothing  more  than  'Arry's  idea  of  the  true 
way  to  spend  a  'appy  life.  The  man  of  reason  does 
not  desire  to  project  his  petty  individuality  into  eter 
nity.  He  who  cries  loudest  for  the  perpetuation  of 
his  valuable  self  is  not  the  statesman  who  fills  the 
books  of  history,  but  the  Philistine.  'Any,  the  Phi 
listine,  upon  whose  tomb  one  reads  '  He  was  born  on 
such  a  day  ;  married  on  such  another  day  So-and-so, 
daughter  of  some  other  duffer,  esquire  ;  had  children 
certain  other  bipeds  and  died.'  Such  a  man  natu 
rally  wishes  a  posthumous  identity,  because  he  hasn't 
sufficient  confidence  that  his  soul  will  wash.  But 
men  who  have  really  been  something  and  have  rea 
son  to  look  back  upon  their  lives  with  satisfaction — 
such  men  yearn  for  rest  after  their  labors,  for  eternal 
sleep.  Naked  selfishness — nothing  else — is  the  basis 
of  this  desire  for  immortality.  The  Philistine  can 
not  bear  to  think  that  his  dear  little  ego — the  one 
thing  in  the  world  about  which  he  is  most  interested, 
on  which  he  has  expended  so  much  pains — should  be 
annihilated.  What  does  the  hero  in  his  strong  growth 

C5    O 

care  for  immortality  ?     It  is  only  to  old  women,  sip- 


GUEKNDALK.  197 

ping  their  tea,  that  it  is  the  air  in  which  they  breathe. 
What  has  become  of  Miss  Bonnymort  ?  You  tell  me 
nothing  of  her." 

"  She  has  been  away  some  months  and  I  haven't 
seen  her,"  said  Guy  quietly.  "Where  are  you  going 
to  be  this  year  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  do  the  domestic  a  while  with  my  nu 
merous  sisters— play  the  pattern  son  and  heir  to  my 
pa  and  ma — and  devote  what  remains  of  my  strength 
to  resisting  their  combined  efforts  to  make  me  com 
mit  matrimony." 

"  Are  you  never  going  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  dear  boy.  But  you  see,  I  am  very 
difficile,  I  expect  too  much.  And  a  girl  of  the  kind 
that  I  want  would  not  be  likely  to  want  me." 

"  Why  ?  You  have  money  enough,  position 
enough " 

"Ah,  if  that  were  all.  But,  you  see,  my  require 
ments  are  extravagant.  I  expect  the  lady  to  be  both 
gentle  and  true,  and  not  a  fool." 

"  I  have  never  yet  succeeded  in  understanding 
you,  Norton,"  Guy  complained,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  young  violet  in  the  parterres  of 
society.  My  character  has  all  the  obscurity  of  sim 
plicity." 

"  As  simple  as  an  orchid  in  a  flower-pot,  my  aged 
and  exotic  European." 

"  I  say,  young  'un,  don't  steal  my  thunder.  Don't 
you  know  that  a  cynic  is  the  only  person  who  hates 
to  be  imitated  ?  Being  by  the  sad  sea  waves  (which 
I  always  thought  ought  to  be  mad,  insane,  idiotic 
sea  waves,  for  their  infernal  perseverance  in  tumb- 


198  GUERNDALE. 

ling  about  and  accomplishing  nothing),  I  suppose 
I  may  take  a  cigar.  -  -  Ah,  my  boy,"  and  resigning 
the  reins  to  Guy,  he  took  the  lower  seat.  "  I  wish 
to  live,  not  as  a  savage  or  a  misanthrope,  but  as  a 
solitary  man  on  the  frontiers  of  society,  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  world.  Consider  the  birds  ;  they  come 
and  go  and  make  nests  around  our  habitations ;  they 
are  fellow-citizens  of  our  farms  and  hamlets  with  us  ; 
but  they  take  their  flight  in  a  heaven  which  is  bound 
less.  The  hand  of  God  alone  gives  and  measures  to 
them  their  daily  food  ;  they  build  their  nests  in  the 
heart  of  the  thick  bushes,  or  bury  them  in  the  height 
of  trees.  So  would  I,  too,  live — hovering  around 
society,  and  having  always  at  my  back  a  field  of 
liberty  boundless  as  the  sky  !  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Guy,  "  that  your  acquaintance  with 
the  literature  of  laziness  is  as  varied  as  ever." 

"Call  it  not  laziness — call  it  still-life.  That  is  the 
artistic  thing.  Yes,  Guy — still-life  is  the  thing.  The 
Dutch  school  of  life.  Occupied  most  with  interiors  ; 
so  look  out  only  for  dyspepsia.  Dutch  courage, 
Dutch  repose.  I  am  growing  Dutch  in  everything — 
Dutch  in  restfulness  ;  Dutch  in  my  taste  for  damning 
the  sea  which  first  unsettled  men's  minds  ;  Dutch  in 
my  taste  in  women  and  tobacco  ;  Dutch  also  in  build 
— an  architecture  of  the  human  frame  so  beautifully 
adapted  for  sitting  down,  that  the  divine  intention  is 
obvious.  .  .  .  For  what  after  all  is  action  ?  Ac 
tion  implies  will,  will  implies  desire,  desire  implies 
imperfection  and  want  and  misery.  Quietude  is  the 
thing " 

And  Randolph   took  a  long  pull   at  his  cigar,  for 


GUERNDALE.  199 

he  used  to  say  that  no  speech  was  so  important  as 
to  justify  imperilling  the  light  of  one's  weed. 

"  Quietude — go  through  life  like  a  nun,  barring 
the  morals.  Keep  a  good  digestion  and  a  hard 
heart." 

"Damn,"  said  Guy. 

"  I  say,  speaking  of  hearts,  Newport  seems  to  be 
very  much  the  sort  of  place  that  it  was  in  my  youth 
— admirably  calculated  for  working  up  the  raw  ma 
terial  of  society  into  the  finished  product,  giving  the 
most  natural  girl  and  the  most  sensible  man  the  culte 
of  ostentation  and  fashion.  Here  we  learn  to  take 
the  world  at  its  true  value  ;  our  emotional  weaknesses 
are  safely  crushed.  Seriously,  I  think  of  establish 
ing  a  sort  of  moral  sanitarium  here  for  the  weak  in 
heart.  A  grand  idea — by  Israfel  the  fiddler  !  And 
here,  if  I  mistake  not,  comes  that  blameless  lordship, 
John  Canaster !  " 

"  Who's  that  ?  " 

"  Seventh  son  of  the  Duke  of  Maccaboy.  I  saw  him 
last  as  a  young  calf  fresh  from  Sandhurst — now  I  find 
him  a  beef-a-la-mode  at  Newport  !  to  adapt  an  inge 
nious  metaphor  from  Heine."  And  Norton  pointed 
to  a  burly  young  Briton  with  a  single  eye-glass,  robed 
in  a  lounging-suit  of  which  it  took  two  to  complete 
the  pattern. 

"  Oh  !  the  little  Englishman.  But  who's  that  with 
him  ?  Phil  !  by  Jove  !  "  And  Guy  slung  himself 
out  of  the  dog-cart  before  Philip  Symonds,  resplen 
dent  of  collar  and  cravat,  somewhat  hairier,  a  little 
airier,  but  otherwise  much  the  same  as  ever. 

Randolph  joined  them  more  quietly,  and  the  re- 


200  GUERNDALE. 

union  was  celebrated  by  a  grand  dinner  at  the  lit- 
tie  club — Lord  John  lending  lustre  to  the  party, 
and  affording  a  beautiful  subject  for  the  mystifica 
tions  of  Norton  Randolph,  greatly  to  Phil's  amuse 
ment  and  a  little  to  his  horror.  For  Guy's  friend 
was  the  least  bit  overcome  by  the  glamour  of  the 
peerage,  as  became  a  descendant  of  John  Simmons, 
of  Dale.  He  might  have  had  no  anxiety,  however  ; 
for  his  lordship's  fear  of  being  taken  in  was  only 
equalled  by  the  ease  with  which  he  fell  a  victim,  and 
the  calm  with  which  he  remained  one. 

Philip  was  in  great  spirits  that  evening,  and  full 
of  talk  of  the  wine,  women,  and  horses  he  had  met 
on  his  travels.  Little  was  said  about  America,  ex 
cept  when  he  asked  Randolph  about  the  budding 
Boston  girls,  and  promised  Canaster  to  "trot  them 
out,"  when  he  went  there,  for  his  lordship's  gratifi 
cation.  How  was  Annie  Bonnymort  coming  on  ?  he 
said  to  Guy.  She  had  promised  to  be  a  devilish 
pretty  girl,  he  told  Canaster ;  very  good  points ; 
rather  thin,  though.  Yaas,  said  Canaster,  he  had 
seen  Miss  B.  in  London.  Nice  girl,  very  ;  neat  lit 
tle  filly.  Most  women  in  the  States  were  weak  on 
figure,  he  was  told.  "Not  so  Avith  us,  egad!  Re 
member  when  Lady  Constance  and  Lady  Alice  Eve 
lyn  first  used  to  show  !  We  called  'em  Big  Beef ! 
Haw,  haw  !  And  Boiled  Beef  !  "  And  Canaster  be 
came  convulsed  with  laughter  over  these  amusing 
epithets.  '•  Now  in  London,  Miss  Bonnymort  Avas 
considered " 

"  English  ladies  have  good  legs,"  Randolph  broke 
in  bluntly,  with  a  curious  expression.  Guy  looked 


GUERNDALE.  2OI 

at  him  with  surprise.  "  I  say  they  have  good  legs, 
but  big  feet." 

"  Haw,  haw — really  now,  I  don't  deny  it.  But  how 
do  you  know?"  And  Lord  John  rolled  in  his  chair 
with  laughter  at  his  own  wit.  Randolph  suddenly 
changed  his  manner  to  his  usual  lazy  calm.  At  all 
events,  if  his  lordship  had  not  seen  an  offence,  the 
conversation  was  turned  from  Miss  Bonnymort — 
much  to  Guy's  relief,  Randolph  made  bold  to  im 
agine.  He  poured  out  another  glass  of  wine,  and 
hummed  carelessly  : 

"  '  Madame  alleguera  qu'elle  monte  en  berline — 

Que,  lorsqu'on  voit  le  pied,  la  jambe  se  devine — '  ' 

"Come,  Guy — I  see  Phil  is  about  to  induct  Lord 
John  into  the  mysteries  of  poker.  You  don't  care 
for  that  ? " 

So  Guy  and  Randolph  talked  cynicism  for  half  an 
hour  as  they  walked  home  to  his  cottage,  and  then 
Guy  secretly  stole  down  to  the  cliffs  and  smoked 
his  bedtime  cigar  over  the  salt  breath  of  the  break 
ers.  Afar  to  the  south  stretched  the  ashen  ocean,  and 
he  looked  dreamily  out  to  the  line  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
and  wondered  where  beyond  the  rim  a  certain  ship 
might  be  that  was  bringing  the  Bonnymorts  home 
from  England. 
-9* 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

We  thaet  Maethhilde  That  of  Maethilde  we 

Monge  gefrugnon  :  May  have  heard 

Wurdon  grundlease  Were  unreasonable 

Geates  frige,  Geat's  courtships, 

The  hi  seo  sorg-lufu  So  that  from  him,  hapless  love, 

Slaep  ealle  binom.  All  sleep  took  ; 

Thaes  ofereode,  That  he  surmounted, 

Thisses  swa  maeg.  So  may  I  this. 

— OLD  SAXON  POEM. 

*  I  ^HE  ensuing  week  was  passed  by  Philip  in  in- 
_l_  ducting  his  British  lordship  into  the  mysteries 
of  poker  and  American  society.  History  does  not 
record  the  amount  of  British  gold  which  found  its 
way  into  the  pockets  of  our  genial  Yankee  during 
this  period  ;  but  it  must  have  been  large,  for  Phil 
was  unusually  flush  for  several  months  afterward. 
Lord  John  was  possessed  with  the  idea  that  every 
American  woman  desired  to  marry  him  ;  a  pleasant 
delusion  of  which  Randolph  was  considerately  slow 
in  disabusing  him.  The  latter  ineffable  personage 
derived  vast  amusement  from  this  and  other  pecu 
liarities,  and  was  fond  of  mystifying  the  stranger  in 
elaborate  and  ingenious  ways.  "  The  great  thing," 
he  would  say,  "with  American  girls,  is  to  understand 
that  they  observe  absolutely  no  conventions,  and  will 
stand  any  amount  of  knock-dowrn  flattery.  Their 


GUERNDALE.  203 

minds  being  rude  and  uncultivated,  they  can  enjoy 
but  the  simplest  and  crudest  forms  of  attention. 
European  finesse  and  English  delicacy  of  persiflage 
is  quite  lost  upon  them.  Their  characters  being 
wild  and  unformed,  they  have  no  notion  of  the  ordi 
nary  social  trammels  and  polite  observances.  My 
dear  Lord  John,  you  must  say  anything  that  comes 
into  your  head,  and  do  anything  you  like.  That  will 
please  them." 

Whereupon  Randolph  would  retire  into  a  corner 
and  chuckle  in  solitude  over  the  social  mishaps 
which  attended  the  following  his  advice. 

Fortunately  his  lordship  was  quite  impervious  to 
snubs ;  and  his  heart  was  quite  safe,  being  well 
wadded  with  conceit.  And  if  John  Canaster  returned 
safe  and  unmarried  to  the  maternal  bosom  of  her  anx 
ious  Grace,  it  was  because  he  was  so  convinced  that 
every  one  wished  to  wed  him  that  he  feared  to  ask  any 
one.  The  Oolongs  of  New  York  have  to  this  day 
never  forgiven  Randolph  for  persuading  him  to  go  to 
their  dinner  in  a  velveteen  shooting-jacket,  and  it  is 
currently  believed  that  it  was  as  much  owing  to  the 
corrupting  counsel  of  Randolph  as  to  the  embold 
ening  influence  of  the  wine,  that  the  noble  English 
man  got  into  that  awkward  row  for  kissing  Miss 
Pussie  Van  Dam  upon  the  terrace. 

A  few  days  after  the  evening  at  the  club,  Guy  gre\v 
nervous  at  Newport.  He  felt,  as  he  told  Randolph, 
a  strong  desire  to  be  at  work  again  ;  so  his  host  com 
passionately  suffered  him  one  Monday  to  take  the 
afternoon  train  for  Boston,  where  Phil  promised  to 
meet  him  in  a  few  days.  Guy  had  a  restless  fear  of 


204  GUERNDALE. 

ennui,  even  for  that  short  journey,  and  bestowed 
himself  in  his  seat  well  provisioned  with  novels  and 
newspapers.  But  I  doubt  if  they  got  much  more 
attention  from  him  than  the  scrub-oak  woods  and 
rocky  meadows  through  which  the  train  rushed 
northward.  Coming  at  last  to  the  city,  he  sent  his 
luggage  in  a  cab,  feeling  that  he  would  rather  walk. 
The  evening  was  crisp  and  cool,  and  it  was  only  a 
detour  of  a  block  or  so  to  go  through  the  street 
where  the  Bonnymorts  lived.  The  house  was  lighted; 
evidently  they  were  come  home.  He  could  not,  of 
course,  go  in,  but  he  lingered  around  the  doorstep  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  walked  behind  the  house 
and  home  by  the  brink  of  the  river.  There  was  a 
light  in  the  second  story  room  which  he  knew  was 
hers. 

As  he  entered  his  own  study  he  was  almost  over 
come  by  a  cloud  of  dense  tobacco  smoke,  through 
which,  when  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the 
smart,  he  discerned  the  figure  of  John  Strang,  puf 
fing  an  enormous  meerschaum,  from  which  the  cloud 
proceeded.  This  worthy  was  sitting  in  the  depths 
of  an  arm-chair,  at  his  elbow  a  huge  jug  of  beer,  and 
a  table  which  supported  the  elbow  also  ;  his  fist  un 
der  his  chin,  a  slipper  and  an  open  book  on  the  car 
pet  before  him.  He  did  not  see  Guy  for  a  minute  ; 
when  he  did,  it  was  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"  Guerndy,  my  boy,  were  you  ever  in  love  ? " 

"N-o  ;   why?" 

"I  am." 

"You  ?" 

"I." 


GUERNDALE.  2O5 

Guy  fell  upon  a  chair,  and  looked  at  Strang  in 
amazement. 

"Ay — in  all  the  plenitude  of  youth  and  strength, 
in  the  flush  of  promise — man  that  I  am — I  am  in 
love.  I  thought  I  would  tell  you.  You  would  have 
found  it  out  anyway.  Loss  of  appetite,  general  de 
bility,  emaciation,"  and  John  took  a  pull  at  the  jug 
and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  You  in  love  ?  My  dear  fellow,  if  there  is  anything 
I  can  do  for  you,  you  are  sure  of  my  sympathy " 

"  Damn  your  sympathy.  Guy,  this  thing  must  be 
studied  scientifically,  and  firmly  treated.  I  have 
been  deriving  solace  from  literature,  as  you  see." 
And  Strang  indicated  with  his  foot  a  volume  of 
Speacer  on  the  ground  before  him.  "  Burton,  in  his 
Anatomy,  says  the  seat  of  this  disease  is  in  the  liver. 
Randolph's  friend,  Schopenhauer,  says  it  is  the  affir 
mation  of  the  will  to  live.  The  great  Herbert  grounds 
it  on  the  end  of  all  nature  processes — the  preserva 
tion  of  life.  Anyhow,  I  have  got  it." 

"What  is  more,"  continued  Strang  meditatively, 
"  I  take  it  most  unphilosophically,  too.  For,  granted 
that  the  reason  of  this  idiocy  on  my  part  be  well 
grounded,  why  should  the  phenomena  appear  only 
in  connection  with  this  particular  girl  ?  The  ends 
of  nature,  obviously,  would  be  as  well  .subserved 
with  one  woman  as  another.  But  to  me  the  opera 
tion  of  the  law  is  narrowed  to  this  one  particular  ob 
ject.  All  the  other  women  in  the  world  are  com 
pletely  indifferent."  And  John  sighed  heavily,  and 
shook  a  bell  at  his  side.  "  Mary  !  Mary  !  " 

"Yes,  sir  !  "    And  the  rapidity  of  her  run  up-stairs 


2O6  GUERNDALE. 

was  evidence  that  John's  nervous  condition  had  been 
of  some  duration. 

"Another  bottle  of  beer." 

The  door  closed  behind  the  not  particularly  neat- 
handed  Phillis,  and  John  relapsed  into  silence.  Guy 
stared  at  him  helplessly. 

"Moreover,"  broke  in  John,  "there  is  no  satisfac 
tory  method  of  explaining  the  infernal  earnestness 
of  this  thing.  Spencer  would  not  rank  the  perpetu 
ation  of  life  as  a  more  important  end  than  the  main 
tenance  of  it.  But  with  me  the  maintenance  of  life 
is  of  comparatively  slight  importance.  I  do  not  set 
about  getting  my  bread  and  butter  with  the  blind,  un 
governable  passion  that  prompts  me  to  send  flowers 
to  her.  I  have  been  told  that  I  am  somewhat  lazy  in 
earning  my  daily  bread — even  with  the  added  in 
ducement  of  beer  and  tobacco.  Hang  it,  Guy,  I 
have  the  feeling  of  having  lost  control  of  myself.  I 
do  not  like  it.  I  will  not  be  made  an  ass  of.  I  will 
not  get  away  from  myself.  She  asked  me  to  go  and 
see  her  this  evening,  and  I  am  not  going  for  that 
very  reason.  Volition  is  liberty."  And  John  re 
curred  to  his  beer. 

"May  I  ask  who " 

"What's  the  use?    you'll  find  out  soon  enough." 

"  When  did  you  meet  her  ?  " 

"Last  Tuesday.'" 

"Is  she  clever  ?" 

"  Don't  know." 

"Pretty?" 

"  Don't  know." 

"Rich?    " 


GUERNDALE.  2O/ 

"  Don't  care." 

"  When  do  you  mean  to  see  her  ? " 

"When  I've  trained  myself  so  that  I  don't  care 
whether  I  see  her  or  not." 

Guy  smiled,  and  John  continued  to  puff  savagely. 
"  I  saw  Phil  at  Newport,  John.  He  looks  hand 
somer  than  ever,  and  is  coming  back  to  Boston  this 
winter.  And  you  ought  to  see  Randolph  again  ! 
He  is  the  same  gentle  old  cynic  that  he  always  was, 
only  mellowed  a  little,  and  I  think " 

"What  time  is  it,  Guy?" 

"Eight,  or  a  little  after,  I  believe,"  said  Guy. 
"Why?" 

"  I  think  I'll  go  round  there  after  all.  It's  not  too 
late,  is  it  ?" 

"  Round  where  ?  " 

"To  see  that— that  girl  I  spoke  of.  I  think  it 
might  be  rude  if  I  didn't  go." 

Guy  gave  one  of  his  fresh  laughs,  brought  from 
the  mountains  of  Virginia.  "  And  how  about  inde 
pendence  and  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  if  she  can  control  me,  there  is  only  one  way  for 
me  to  regain  my  authority  over  myself  ;  and  that  is, 
to  control  her." 

"And  how  do  you  mean  to  do  that  ?" 

"  I'll  marry  her,"  said  John. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

"  God  wot,  schc  slcpeth  softe, 
For  love  of  thee,  when  thou  turnest  ful  ofte." — CHAUCER. 

GUY  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night.  He 
r  was  nervous  and  excited  ;  and,  in  some  way, 
the  light  that  streamed  from  the  two  windows  be 
neath  which  he  had  been,  came  stealing  over  the  river 
to  fall  into  his  own  dark  room.  To-morrow  even 
ing  he  should  see  her  ;  would  to-morrow  ever  come  ? 
He  tried  to  think  of  other  things — of  Newport,  of 
Randolph,  of  Phil.  Dear  old  Philip  !  He  would 
wish  him  success,  Guy  knew.  And  lazy,  jolly,  placid 
Randolph — how  little  he  knew  the  reason  of  his 
change,  and  what  lay  at  the  base  of  all  Guy's  energy. 
Ah,  well.  Perhaps  Randolph  would  not  think  even 
this  reason  enough. 

However,  work  must  not  suffer ;  so  Guy  rose  as 
usual  and  went  to  his  school.  The  lectures  were  rather 
prosy  that  morning;  and  when  he  finally  found  him 
self  alone,  he  set  to  work  on  some  geological  report. 
But  his  thoughts  did  not  flow  so  freely  as  usual  ; 
not  even  when  he  wrote  the  name  Annie  Bonnymort  at 
the  top  of  the  blank  page.  This  had  been  his  habit, 
for  some  months,  when  the  movements  of  the  heart 


GUERNDALE.  2CX) 

deranged  the  working  of  his  intellect  ;  but  to-day 
he  could  not  so  drive  her  from  his  mind.  How 
would  she  seem  that  night  ?  How  would  she  greet 
him  ?  When  he  met  her,  would  she  be  at  all  embar 
rassed  ?  Her  letters  had  been  natural  enough,  but 
it  is  easy  to  avoid  embarrassment  on  paper.  Could 
he  still  call  her  by  her  first  name  ?  He  doubted  ; 
certainly,  it  would  not  be  easy  for  him.  "Always 
the  same  ; "  yes,  he  would  never  forget.  Always  the 
same,  at  the  very  least.  .  .  .  When  did  he  first  be 
gin  to  love  her?  He  could  not  remember.  He  had 
thought  it  was  that  last  day  of  the  walk  in  the 
Avoods  in  Dale,  but  he  saw  now  that  this  was  only 
the  time  when  he  first  became  conscious  of  it.  Was 
it  v,  hen  he  first  met  her,  after  so  many  years,  the 
summer  he  left  college  ?  No  ;  it  must  have  been 
before  that,  long  before  that ;  before  he  went  to  col 
lege,  perhaps  even  before  he  went  to  school.  Was 
it  not  for  some  such  reason  that  he  first  persuaded 
his  mother  to  let  him  go  to  school  ?  Yet  could  he 
really  have  been  in  love  at  the  tender  age  of  ten  ? 
He  smiled  to  himself  at  the  thought,  but  smiled  se 
riously. 

He  did  not  mean,  that  evening,  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him.  No,  he  must  try  a  long  time  to  win  her,  and  yet 
a  longer  time  to  be  worthy  of  her.  But  at  least  he 
might  now  begin  trying  to  make  her  love  him.  There 
was  no  longer  any  need  for  guarding  the  secret  from 
her  so  sacredly.  She  might  begin  to  be  conscious 
of  his  love,  even  if  years  passed  before  he  told  her 
it  was  the  one  thought  of  his  life.  How  sacred, 
sweet,  serious,  it  all  seemed — so  different  from  the 


2IO  GUERNDALE. 

•triviality  and  silliness  of  courtship  as  it  is  drawn  in 
novels  ;  still  more  so  from  such  love-making  as  was 
talked  of  by  Philip  and  his  English  friend. 

At  eight,  after  an  hour  of  anxious  preparation^ 
and  not  much  dinner,  he  presented  himself  at  the 
Bonnymorts.  Yes ;  Miss  Bonnymort  was  in,  ant, 
would  see  him.  As  he  entered,  she  rose  with  her 
happy  smile,  and  pressed  his  hand  unaffectedly  as  he 
sat  down  beside  her.  Her  father,  too,  greeted  him 
most  cordially,  and  had  a  providential  engagement 
for  the  evening  ;  leaving,  as  he  kindly  said,  the  two 
young  people  to  themselves.  "And  be  sure  you 
don't  go  till  I  come  back,  sir  !  "  he  said.  Guy  took 
his  seat  again  with  a  flutter  of  expectation.  But  did 
two  hours  ever  pass  more  quickly  ?  And  with  so 
little  said  of  what  he  wished  to  say.  He  felt  ner 
vously  that  the  moments  were  flying  by,  and  that, 
perhaps,  he  had  best  tell  her  that  evening ;  but  it 
seemed  to  him  when  he  rose  to  go  that  they  had 
been  like  children  together  :  he  might  have  been  a 
boy  in  Dale,  and  she  a  little  girl  with  heart  bent  on 
ferns  and  flowers,  instead  of  a  man  and  woman  in 
evening  dress,  meeting  in  a  city  drawing-room.  They 
talked,  as  usual,  much  of  Philip,  and  Annie  said, 
with  a  little  playful  petulance,  that  he  had  not  been 
to  see  her.  As  Guy  walked  home,  he  thought  with 
much  satisfaction  that  Mr.  Bonnymort  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  must  have  meant  the  encouragement 
he  had  given  him.  How  gracious  she  had  been,  and 
yet  how  sweet  and  natural  !  Was  there  ever  any  one 
who  walked  so  like  a  grande  dame,  and  bore  her  small 
head  so  regally,  who  had  yet  such  soft  eyes  as  Annie  ? 


GUERNDALE.  211 

All  that  was  bad  and  weak  in  him  seemed  to  sink 
before  them,  to  fade  in  their  light.  How  right  he 
was  in  loving  her  ! 

So  Guy  was  thinking  as  he  opened  the  door  of  his 
parlor;  but,  as  he  turned  the  knob,  he  shrank  back, 
abashed  to  find  himself  in  such  a  blaze  of  light. 
There  were  Philip  and  Lord  John  Canaster  and  half 
a  dozen  other  men  having  high  supper.  John  Strang 
had  relinquished  his  accustomed  easy-chair  to  his  dis 
tinguished  guest ;  but  he  sat  in  a  corner  puffing  the 
usual  pipe,  and  was  evidently  "taking  in  "  his  lord 
ship  with  a  lively  interest  and  admiration.  Lord  John 
was  quite  the  centre  of  the  circle,  and,  being  in  a 
genial  and  unbending  mood,  was  telling  stories  ad- 
mi  -ably  calculated  to  bring  a  blush  to  the  check  of 
the  least  fastidious.  Phil  was  in  more  than  usually 
good  voice  and  laugh,  fresh  from  cricket  in  the 
country  and  still  flushed,  having  ridden  in  to  dinner. 
Randolph,  he  said,  was  coming  up  to-morrow,  and 
would  probably  be  at  Miss  Bonnymort's  "coming- 
out  "  ball  the  next  evening.  "You  know,  Canaster," 
he  said  ;  "the  little  girl  we  were  talking  about  at 
Newport  the  other  day."  Yes,  Canaster  remem 
bered.  "What  a  devilish  cranky  fellow  that  Ran 
dolph  is,  though !  By  Jove,  you  can't  make  out 
whether  he  is  chaffing  a  fellow  or  not." 

"  Randolph  is  an  ass,"  said  Phil,  jovially.  "But  I 
tell  you  what,  John,  old  man,  now  you  must  see  some 
of  our  Boston  girls.  Lord  knows,  I'm  tired  enough 
of  'em  myself,  but  they  may  amuse  a  stranger." 

"  Speaking  of  girls,"  said  Tom  Brattle,  "  have  you 
heard  the  story  they  tell  about  Mrs.  Bill  Willing  ?  " 


212  GUERNDALE. 

"Mrs.  Bill  Willing,"  said  Phil,  ''is  my  cousin. 
Still,  no  matter  ;  go  ahead.  Fair  game." 

"  Don't  let  a  little  matter  of  family  trees  stand  in 
the  way  of  a  good  story  !  "  laughed  Lord  John. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Tom.  "  Well,  you  see,  Bill 
returned  from  Colorado  one  evening,  and  found  his 
wife  had  gone  to  a  party ;  so  what  does  he  do  but 
pop  on  his  dress  clothes  and  follow  her.  It  was  in 
Washington,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  Mexican  Minis 
ter.  And  there  he  finds  Mrs.  Bill  alone  in  the  con 
servatory,  her  partner  gone  for  an  ice  or  something, 
and  she  was  waiting  for  him  ;  so  he  thinks  it  would 
be  no  end  of  a  joke  to  steal  up  behind  her,  and  kiss 
her  and  make  her  scream.  So  he  up  and  did  it." 

"Well,  is  that  all?" 

"Don't  see  the  point,  if  he  did  make  her  scream." 

"  Low  kind  of  humor,  practical  joking." 

"But,"  said  Brattle,  relapsing  into  a  laugh,  "the 
point  is  just  that  he  didn't  make  her  scream  !  Bill 
kissed  her,  and  Mrs.  W.  looked  around,  and  saw  her 
husband.  Then  she  screamed  !  " 

"  Speaking  of  the  Willings,"  said  Phil,  after  a 
roar  of  laughter,  "  Bill's  sister  reminds  me  of  that 
little  Bec-de-gaz,  as  the  men  used  to  call  her  in  Paris. 
Do  you  remember  what  eyes  she  had  ?  And,  gad, 
John,  that  night  when  you  and  Bixby  and  I  had  that 
supper  at  the  Cafe  Americain  ?  By  Jove,  how — 

"  Oh,  hang  it,  Phil,  give  us  a  song,  and  don't 
let's  have  post-mortems  of  past  dinners.  It  makes 
me  melancholy — dyspeptic,  in  fact.  Besides,  I  hate 
to  talk  about  girls ;  it's  bad  enough  to  have  to 
talk  to  them.  Why,  Mr.  Strang,  that  man's  success 


GUERNDALE.  213 

among  the — er-coryphees  and  things,  in  Paris,  you 
know,  was  amazing.  As  to  society,  I  can't  judge 
over  here.  But  I've  no  doubt  he's  equally  irresistible. " 

"Well,  the  fact  is,"  said  Phil  modestly,  "  I've  usu. 
ally  found  that  what  goes  down  with  one  kind  goes 
down  with  the  other — properly  veiled,  you  know, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  There  ain't  so  much  dif 
ference  after  all.  Women  are  very  much  alike." 

Phil's  voice  was  very  rich  and  fine  ;  and  he  sang 
his  songs  with  a  masculine  voice  that  was  irresistible. 
Then  he  drifted  off  into  a  lot  of  French  couplets, 
with  a  Tzi'/ig-la-la. !  Tzing-la-la. !  catch  and  snap  ; 
while  the  other  men  drank  and  told  stories,  and  told 
stories  and  drank,  and  smoked  between  times. 
Ftrang,  I  think,  did  not  admire  Phil  as  much  as  the 
rest  of  us  did,  and  he  grew  visibly  impatient  under 
the  long  evening.  Finally,  when  Phil  insisted  on  his 
bringing  out  the  card-table,  he  left  Guy  to  play  the 
host  and  went  to  bed.  Guy  had  been  silent  and 
distrait  all  the  evening  ;  and  now  he  felt  a  sudden 
anger,  a  want  of  sympathy  with  their  moods  and 
minds.  He  wrondered  if  Phil  thought  ever  of  the 
room  and  presence  he  had  just  left.  He  had  warmly 
defended  his  friend  to  her,  that  night ;  but  now  he 
could  not  help  wishing  he  would  be  a  little  different. 

About  midnight  there  was  a  gentle  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Randolph  stood  on  the  threshold,  well 
dressed,  in  a  loose  travelling  suit,  with  a  thin  um 
brella.  Randolph  had  plenty  of  luggage,  but  he 
never  troubled  himself  with  a  hand-bag,  or  carried 
anything  more  than  a  light  stick  or  umbrella  in  his 
hand. 


214  GUERNDALE. 

"You  fellows  seem  to  be  burning  considerable  of 
the  candle  off  at  the  other  end,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  You  look  like  the  latter  end  of  a  misspent  life, 
already.  Guy,  my  boy,  I  want  a  bed.  I  do  not  wish 
to  burst  too  suddenly  upon  the  domestic  hearth. 
Meantime,  shall  I  take  a  hand  ?  Whist  is  the  best 
game,  though.  Philip,  do  you  know  why  they  had 
just  eight  people  in  the  Ark  ?  It  was  to  make  two 
tables  for  whist.  Guy,  go  to  bed.  You  look  tired." 

After  some  excuses,  Guy  was  persuaded.  Phil 
and  the  bluff  Englishman  showed  no  signs  of  fatigue  ; 
and  while  Tom  Brattle  dozed  peacefully  on  a  lounge, 
the  others  sat  and  played.  Although  Randolph  had 
been  in  the  cars  all  day,  he  played  a  beautiful  game  ; 
and  when  they  stopped,  his  pale  face  shone  serene 
and  victorious  over  the  tobacco-mists  of  the  battle 
field  and  a  smell  of  brandy.  Guy,  in  the  next  room, 
was  asleep  and  dreaming. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"  And  I've  a  Lady — 

— I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  Lady's  foot, 
Rather  than  trample  under  mine 
The  laurels  of  the  Florentine. 
So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in, 
With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  lips  and  little  chin,  the  stir 
Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  ;  and  she — 
I'll  tell  you — calmly  would  decree 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 
If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night." — R.  BROWNING. 

"  T T  ELLO,  John,  good  morning !    Haven't  seen 

JL  A      you  since  you  got  sober  ! " 

"Now  look  here,"  said  John,  as  he  came  striding 
into  the  study,  rosy  with  ten  hours'  sleep  and  keen 
for  breakfast,  "  I  am  not  straight-laced,  nor  unduly 
prejudiced.  But  if  this  retired  and  modest  bach 
elor's  apartment  is  to  be  turned  into  a  nocturnal 
gambling-hell,  and  blinded  and  shuttered  in  the  day 
time  to  preserve  the  noonday  slumbers  of  exhausted 
debauchees,  I " 

"  Rise  above  your  predilections,  John,  and  do  not 
get  excited  before  breakfast — or  after,  either.  Take 
a  little  seltzer,  mitigated  with  brandy. 


2l6  GUERNDALE. 

1  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  break  of  day, 
Wash  with  cold  seltzer  the  cobwebs  away, 
That  cloyed  his  throat  from  yester-e'en's  carouse.' 

Guy,  sweet  youth,  thy  eyes  do  but  mislead  the  morn. 
Send  for  some  more  coffee  and  a  cigarette,  if  you 
have  got  one.  I  made  a  lot  of  money  for  you  last 
night,  and  all  I  crave  in  return  is  board  and  lodg 
ing.  My  family  don't  know  I'm  in  town.  To-day 
is  Sunday  ;  when  I  feel  able  to  bear  the  splendor  of 
their  company,  I  may  venture  out.  Possibly  by 
Tuesday  or  thereabouts.  Meantime,  I  have  been  to 
early  service  at  a  little  ritualistic  chapel  I  discovered 
near  by,  where  they  haven't  half  a  bad  idea  of  in 
toning " 

"  From  cards  to  church,  from  church  to  cynic 
sneers,"  sighed  Guy.  "  You  really  ought  not  to  mix 
things  up  so,  old  man.  It  is  so  hard  to  think  you 
are  in  earnest  in  anything,"  he  added,  pathetically. 

"  Is  it,  really  !  By  Jove  ! "  laughed  Randolph. 
"  Well,  there  are  your  ill-gotten  gains  ! "  pointing 
to  a  heap  of  notes  on  the  table. 

"  Which  of  course  I  shall  not  take,"  said  Guy. 

"  Well,  give  them  to  the  poor  of  the  ward,  for  all 
I  care — or  to  Harvard  College.  Ha !  where's  John 
Strang  !  " 

"John  is  off  his  feed,"  laughed  Guy. 

"In  love?" 

"  He  won't  mind  my  telling  you,  if  he  is." 

"What,  that  man  of  success — that  hero  for  a  Sun 
day-school  biography — that  walking  epitome  of  the 
development  of  the  natural  resources  of  the  country  ? 
Well,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  the  comedy.  He 


GUERNDALE.  2 1/ 

must  be  more  fun  than  Falstaff.  How  is  she — fas 
cinating  and  false,  or  true  and  common-place  ?  Those 
are  the  only  two  varieties  I  know.  Has  he  any  chance 
of  success  ?  Strang  is  not  a  rich  man." 

"  Come,  Norton,  you  don't  think  girls  nowadays 
marry  for  money  ? " 

"No;  I  don't  think  they  do.  Oh,  no.  They 
marry  for  love.  But  they  are  uncommonly  apt  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  rich  man.  Hallo,  Strang  ! "  he 
cried,  as  that  worthy  entered.  "  Is  this  true  I  hear 
about  you  and  Miss ?  " 

John  looked  up  with  a  feeble  pretence  of  laughing 
it  off  ;  but  his  eyes  fell,  and  he  tumbled  crestfallen 
into  a  chair. 

"  Oh  that  men  should  put  things  in  their  hearts  to 
filch  their  brains  away  !  "  sighed  Randolph.  "  Why, 
John,  I  have  known  you  a  right  merry  fellow,  and 
as  ready  with  a  kiss  or  a  blow  as  any  in  all  New 
England  ! " 

"  Norton — you  will  not  talk  of  it,  I  know  ;  and  I 
want  your  advice.  From  Guy,  here,  I  have  no  se 
crets." 

"Well,  fire  away,  John.  Alas!"  groaned  Ran 
dolph,  comically,  "  how  true  it  is,  that  in  the  stream 
of  life,  when  the  iron  pot  meets  the  earthenware 
feminine  jar,  it  is  not  the  delicate  vase,  but  the 
hardy  pot,  that  bursts  a  hole  in  its  side  and  sinks  to 
the  bottom  !  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary,"  said  John,  "for  you  to 
know  that.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  am,  if  you  will 
for  once  excuse  profanity,  in  a  hell  of  a-  fix." 

"My  poor   Strephon,"  replied   Randolph    sympa- 


2l8  GUERNDALE. 

thetically,  "  this  world  is  hell — only  we  do  not  know 
it.  And  the  hell  of  it  is  that  we  do  not  know  it. 
Well,  first,  and  most  important  :  of  course,  you  must 
never  let  the  lady  know  you  care  for  her." 

"The  devil !  "  cried  John,  "  I  almost  told  her  that 
the  first  day  I  knew  it  myself  !  " 

"  If  you  had,  it  would  have  been  all  up  with  you. 
At  least,  it  is  infinitely  more  difficult.  The  hardest 
way  to  win  a  woman's  love  is  by  loving  her.  That, 
when  she  mentally  casts  you  up,  will  be  the  least  of 
your  attractions — 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  broke  in  John  and  Guy. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  my  children.  But  it  is  true. 
For,  on  the  one  hand,  it  is  hard  for  a  woman  to  re 
spect  a  man  fool  enough  to  love  her  ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  thinks  it  no  merit  in  him,  as  it  is  a 
thing  which  every  man  ought  to  do.  Le  chemin  le 
plus  difficile  a  itn  cceur  de  femme,  c'est  celui  de  F  amour — 
crede  experto.  See  also  Sir  John  Denham  : 

'  He  that  will  win  his  dame  must  do 
As  Love  does  when  he  bends  his  bow  : 
With  one  hand  thrust  the  lady  from, 
And  with  the  other  pull  her  home  !  '  " 

"  I  believe,"  said  John,  "  you  don't  know  half  so 
much  as  you  pretend  to,  and  are  nothing  but  a  walk 
ing,  chattering  farrago  of  quotations." 

"  //  y  a  dans  ce  monde  si  pcu  de  voix,  et  tant  d'echos. 
said  Goethe.  I  am  one  of  the  echoes." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? " 

"  I  admit  it  is  very  difficult,"  said  Randolph. 
"  Usually  a  \voman  knows  that  a  man  is  in  love  with 
her  before  he  knows  it  himself.  Still,  do  not  let  her 


GUERNDALE. 

think  your  attentions  are  what  the  little  dears  call 
'  serious.'  The  longer  you  keep  from  proposing,  the 
more  she  will  respect  your  self-control  and  admire 
you  as  something  difficult  to  obtain.  As  the  best 
way  of  flirting  with  a  woman  is  to  make  her  think 
you  want  to  marry  her,  so  the  best  way  to  marry  a 
woman  is  to  make  her  think  you  only  want  to  flirt 
with  her." 

"  Oh,  don't,  Norton  ;  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  that 
way,"  broke  in  Guy. 

Randolph  cast  a  side  glance,  and  went  on. 

"  Another  thing,  Strang — do  not  treat  her  with  too 
much  respect.  It  is  very  true  what  Phil  Symonds 
said  the  other  night.  Much  the  same  sort  of  thing 
pleases  women  of  the  whole  world  and  the  half. 
Deference  is  out  of  date.  Reverence  makes  them 
laugh  at  you.  Have  free-and-easy  manners.  Give 
them  plenty  of  chaff  and  bonhomie.  Don't  be  afraid 
of  squeezing  a  hand  or  so  when  you  happen  to  be 
given  it.  Don't  try  to  touch  their  hearts,  but  tickle 
their  vanity.  Make  yourself  the  thing  ;  they  prize 
the  lover's  ton,  not  the  lover's  tone  ;  and  treat  your 
special  Dulcinea  more  after  Sancho's  fashion  than 
the  Don's.  As  Phil  says,  a  firm  hand  is  the  thing, 
both  for  women  and  horses." 

"  Phil  never  talked  that  way!  "  said  Guy,  defend 
ing  his  friend. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Randolph,  "  Phil  is  a  man  of 
sense.  There  is  no  better  training  for  the  game 
of  women  of  society  than  the  earnest  of  the  women 
Phil  met  abroad.  Another  thing,  Strang  ;  if  you 
have  any  earnestness,  solid  worth,  and  that  sort  of 


220  GUERNDALE. 

thing,  be  sure  you  keep  it  out  of  sight,  for  it  will 
frighten  the  modern  maiden  as  much  as  a  dull  ser 
mon.  The  venerable  Lao-Tse,  who,  as  I  once  before 
remarked,  wrote  twelve  hundred  years  before  St. 
Paul  and  three  thousand  years  before  La  Rochefou 
cauld,  said  that  men  should  seek  for  light,  not  glitter. 
And  Goethe  made  a  modern  application  of  the  an 
cient  Chinese  philosophy,  by  saying  that  women 
liked  Glanz,  nicht  Licht.  They  will  love  you,  or  at 
least  pretend  to,  not  for  what  you  are,  but  for  what 
you  seem  to  be." 

Guy  got  up,  and  walked  nervously  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"Yes,"  Randolph  Avent  on,  "Women  like  men  of 
distinction;  but  it  is  for  the  distinction  alone.  Thus, 
a  title  is  always  irresistible,  if  only  decently  backed 
up.  It  is  His  Excellency,  not  his  excellences,  that 
they  adore.  And  be  sure  of  this  :  she  may  fall  in 
love  with  you,  but  it  will  not  be  because  you  are 
worth  marrying  ;  but  for  some  whim  of  fancy,  some 
caprice,  because  she  thinks  another  girl  wants  you  ; 
some  vanity,  if  you  are  generally  considered  desir 
able." 

"A  fellow  who  has  sisters  has  no  business  to  talk 
so  !  "  growled  Guy. 

"  Simmer,  my  fair  idealist,  simmer.  I  don't  say 
these  girls  don't  make  very  fine  wives,  like  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  Dutchwomen,  when  you  do  get  them.  The 
breed  is  immensely  improved  on  being  domesticated. 
Then  they  cease  to  be  girls,  and  become  women  ; 
and  before  they  are  caught  and  securely  penned  up, 
it  is,  perhaps,  fair  that  they  should  have  their  fling, 


GUERNDALE.  221 

and  do  all  the  harm  they  can.  When  they  know 
good  from  evil  they  usually  have  sense  enough  to 
choose  the  good.  To  conclude,  John,  never  trust 
them.  Pretend,  of  course,  to  put  all  the  confidence 
in  them  you  like  ;  but  never  forget  that  women  have 
no  sense  of  honor.  They  may  be  sweet,  fascinating, 
gentle  ;  but  magnanimity  is  the  man's  prerogative. 
And  as  to  sisters,  Guy,  it  is  perhaps  because  I  have 
them  that  I  know  so  much  more  of  the  female  girl 
than  you  do.  Strong,  masculine  creatures,  like  John 
here,  idealize  women  terribly.  It  is  the  man  that 
supplies  the  romance  ;  women  are  intensely  prac 
tical.  They  are  not  half  the  ethereal  creatures  you 
think  them  ;  nor  so  refined,  so  pure-minded  -  " 


!  went  the  door,  as  Guy  left  the  room.  Ran 
dolph  laughed  softly,  and  going  to  the  mantel  lit  a 
pipe. 

"  Not  half  of  this  I  meant  for  you,  John,"  said  he. 

But  Guy  was  quite  angry  with  Randolph  and, 
gaining  the  street,  walked  rapidly  away.  It  was  a 
crisp  October  afternoon  ;  the  parks  and  avenues 
passed  by  unheeded,  and  his  stride  of  four  miles  an 
hour  soon  took  him  out  of  the  town.  As  he  glanced 
carelessly  down  the  street,  he  saw  a  lady's  figure  far 
ahead  ;  suddenly  his  eyes  fell,  and  he  felt  sure  it  was 
Annie.  He  wished  to  avoid  her,  and,  walking  by, 
found  embarrassment  in  the  act  of  raising  his  hat, 
usually  a  simple  thing  enough. 

Gradually  the  houses  fell  away  ;  then  he  left  the 
main  road  for  a  green  lane  ;  that  again  for  the 
woods  ;  and  soon  he  was  wandering  in  the  hills.  His 
step  grew  slower  as  he  picked  his  way  among  the 


222  GUERNDALE. 

trees.  They  were  already  half  bare  ;  so  that  the 
sun's  rays  slanted  far  within  the  wood,  and  fell 
warm  upon  the  heaped  brown  leaves. 

Randolph's  words  faded  from  his  memory,  and  he 
thought  only  of  Annie.  Ah,  if  poor  Norton  had 
only  known  a  woman  like  her  !  Coming  out  of  the 
woods,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill. 
It  was  a  wonderful  afternoon  ;  the  dark  sweep  of 
forest  lay  in  a  glow  of  the  Indian  summer  ;  the  sky 
was  a  golden  blue.  Long  silken  skeins  were  float 
ing  in  the  air,  those  threads  of  gossamer  that  come 
no  whence  and  go  no  whither. 

Yes,  Annie  must  love  him  ;  he  had  so  long  and  so 
truly  loved  her.  Such  love  as  his  must  meet  with  some 
return,  he  thought,  unconsciously  quoting  Brown 
ing  ;  else  there  was  no  right  nor  reason  in  the  world. 
He  did  think  of  Dante's  line — "  Love,  which  suf 
fers  no  one  loved  to  love  not  in  return."  When  he 
came  back  he  propounded  this  to  Randolph. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "  Dante  wrote  before  modern  social 
refinements.  Still,  he  had  been  through  hell,  and 
ought  to  know."  This  remark  was  made  by  Ran 
dolph,  leaning  against  a  door-post  at  the  party  that 
evening. 

The  party,  he  said,  was  much  as  usual.  There  was 
the  usual  number  of  simple  youths,  though  con 
ceited,  and  girls,  commonplace  and  undeveloped. 
He  pointed  out  to  Guy  the  young  man  of  society,  at 
the  feet  of  such  young  ladies  as  were  most  the  thing, 
hastily  recognizing  or  cannily  avoiding  such  as  were 
less  favored.  Happy  fellow !  He  has  risen  at  ten, 
dawdled  at  the  club,  called  on  his  particular  female 


GUERNDALE.  223 

friends  of  the  day  ;  now  he  has  come  from  a  dinner, 
and,  retiring  to  rest,  will  consider  the  day  well  spent 
according  to  the  number  of  invitations  he  has  re 
ceived  or  the  favors  accorded  him  in  the  cotillon. 
Mild  and  humanized  is  this  modern  Don  Juan  ;  little 
hurtful  to  women,  more  to  men,  most  of  all  to  him 
self.  Here  you  might  see  the  maiden  of  the  same 
order  ;  too  frivolous  for  friendship,  scornful  of  the 
follies  of  love,  nurtured  solely  on  admiration,  she 
gauges  men  by  the  ease  with  which  they  talk  small- 
talk  and  the  demand  made  upon  them  for  dinners 
and  coaching  parties.  She  regards  marriage,  except 
under  particularly  brilliant  circumstances,  as  an 
eclipse — a  sort  of  drear  necessity.  But  at  the  same 
time  she  likes  to  have  men  in  love  with  her,  though 
it  is  a  passion  she  cannot  understand.  By  a  wise 
provision  of  nature,  she  is  not  of  a  calibre  to  break 
many  hearts  ;  and  when  she  is  married  she  will  try  to 
make  her  married  life  as  much  like  her  single  life  as 
she  can — in  all  respects. 

Here,  again,  you  might  see  the  gay  young  man  of 
business,  greeting  the  ladies  he  knows  with  jolly 
familiarity  and  good  fellowship.  He  is  bright  ;  but 
his  time  is  too  much  occupied  for  more  than  parties, 
chaff,  and  club  gossip  ;  he  has  plenty  of  "  go  "  and 
snap  in  society,  and  is  known  down  town  as  a 
"  pushing  young  fellow."  He  reads  newspapers,  not 
books;  knows  everybody  "in  society  ;"  and  is  liked 
by  "  the  girls  "  far  more  than  this  other  young  man, 
who  is  critical  with  culture,  and  serious  with  thought, 
and  quite  snubbed  in  a  ball-room. 

There  you  might  see  the  young    married  belle, 


224  GUERNDALE. 

more  successful  than  the  debutante,  happy  with  six 
bouquets  and  the  prospect  of  a  late  supper,  affecting, 
with  rude  half-imitation,  the  immorality  of  older  and 
more  corrupt  societies.  Not  that  there  is  any  real 
crime — oh,  no,  we  are  too  weak  for  that.  See,  she 
is  angry  now  ;  she  sees  her  bosom  friend  with  a  new 
set  of  diamonds,  and  will  revenge  herself  by  flirting 
with  the  husband  and  giver  thereof. 

And  here,  Randolph  might  have  added,  is  a  young 
lady,  with  beauty  and  intelligence  and  education 
and  purity  and  gentle  breeding  as  never  elsewhere 
in  the  world  before  America  gave  her  birth.  And 
there  a  young  salesman,  or  physician,  mayhap,  as 
wise  as  Galen,  as  pure  as  a  woman,  as  chivalrous  as  a 
Bayard  ;  and  withal,  this  modest  young  citizen  of  a 
Republic,  all  apothecary  that  he  is,  or  tradesman,  is 
as  true  a  gentleman  as  you  shall  find  elsewhere  in 
the  world.  And  here  is  Guyon  Guerndale  ;  and,  if 
you  follow  his  eye,  you  will  see  Annie  Bonnymort. 

A  number  of  men  are  about  her,  all  adoring  her, 
Guy  fears.  He  is  an  imaginative  fellow  ;  but  it  is 
quite  beyond  the  power  of  his  imagination  to  picture 
a  man  who  knows  Annie  and  is  not  in  love  with  her. 
After  all,  how  can  he,  among  so  many,  be  the  one  to 
win  her  ?  It  gives  him  no  claim  that  he  would  and 
will  live  and  die  for  her.  Any  one  would  do  that,  he 
thinks.  So  he  goes  up  to  her  timidly,  and  is  re 
warded  by  a  pressure  of  the  hand  when  she  leaves 
with  her  partner  for  the  cotillon.  "  See,  are  not 
these  roses  lovely  ?  "  she  says,  showing  him  a  great 
scarlet  mass  ;  and  then  she  takes  one  of  them  and 
puts  it  in  his  coat — one  of  his  own  roses  ;  for  Guy 


GUERNDALE.  225 

had  sent  to  Virginia  for  them  the  day  before.  "  She 
must  know  who  sent  them,"  Guy  thinks,  "for  there 
was  no  card  with  them,  and  she  would  not  have 
worn  them  if  she  had  not  guessed."  She  had  helped 
to  make  this  intimacy  between  them  ;  and  now  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  turn  her  old  friendship  into  love. 
So  Guy  goes  up  to  Randolph,  who  is  still  leaning 
against  the  wall,  pulling  his  slender,  fair  moustache  ; 
.  so  radiant  that  Randolph  smiles  to  see  him. 

"Well,  Don  Quixote,  have  you  conquered  an  en 
chanted  island,  or  what  ?  " 

Guy  can  afford  to  laugh,  to-night,  at  his  old  friend's 
cynicism.  "You  are  the  Don  Quixote,  old  fellow, 
leaning  on  a  shivered  lance,  and  looking  uselessly  on. 
Caii  no  one  here  tempt  you  to  break  a  lance  your 
self  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  "  muttered  Randolph.  "  My 
young  Don,  remember  the  words  of  the  old  Don, 
grown  old  and  dying — You'll  find  no  new  bird  in 
any  last  year's  nest.'  " 

Guy  looked  at  Randolph  rather  vaguely.  "  Try 
and  fall  in  love,  Norton,"  said  he. 

"  Odzooks,  youngster  !  Quien  se  casa  per  amores 
ha  de  vivir  con  dolores — he  who  houses  himself  with 
love  will  have  trouble  for  a  housemate.  But  you 
are  young  yet — you'll  get  over  it.  Aha  !  that  merry 
fellow,  Strang.  Prithee,  sweet  wag,  an  it  like  thee, 
a  cup  of  sack  were  no  bad  thing  !  Go  to  !  Let  us 
to  the  supper  room."  And  he  dragged  Guy  with 
him  into  the  anteroom,  among  a  group  of  men,  where 
Phil  Symonds  was  prominent,  drinking  champagne 
and  condemning  its  quality,  while  Phil  himself  told 


226  GUERNDALE. 

stories.  Randolph  turned  around  for  Strang,  but  he 
had  vanished  ;  and  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the  ball 
room,  looking  on.  The  floor  was  crowded  with  dan- 

/  O 

cers,  some  solemn  of  countenance,  others  laughing  ; 
some  flushed  with  excitement,  others  pale.  The  less 
splendid  members  of  society  stood  at  the  doors  and 
looked  on  enviously.  There  was  a  harsh  chatter 
of  many  voices,  broken  by  the  blare  of  a  cornet. 
The  air  was  hot  and  intensely  close,  heavy  with  a 
smell  of  supper  and  wax  and  lights.  Little  scraps 
of  lace  and  tulle  littered  the  floor,  and  were  whirled 
about  in  the  vortex  of  the  dancers,  like  autumn 
leaves. 

"  Tattersall's  !  "  growled  Randolph.  "  Guy,  don't 
forget  the  moribund  Don's  discovery,  and  seek  for 
the  birds  of  this  year  in  the  nests  of  the  last.  Ah, 
who  is  that  bucolic  young  creature  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Lord  John,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  as 
if  he  interested  her  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  her  ?  Miss  Kitty  Cotton.  She's 
a  bud.  Isn't  she  pretty,  \vith  her  bright  rosy  face  ? 
She  always  reminds  me  of  Maud  Mullen" 

"  Yes,"  grinned  Randolph,  looking  at  Lord  John, 
"Maud  Miiller,  with  a  rake.  I  hate  to  think  of 
that  gross  fellow  rumbling  through  the  maiden  med 
itations  of  our  fancy  free.  He  judges  Miss  Cotton, 
now,  as  he  would  a  horse.  Still,  she  looks  pleased. 
Perhaps  she  is  willing  to  have  him  take  her  at  his 
own  valuation.  Tattersall's,  again.  Ah,  there  goes 
your  friend  Symonds  ;  dancing  with  Miss  Bonny- 
mort  I  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Guy.     "Just  like  Phil;  he  hates  so- 


GUERNDALE.  22/ 

ciety  I  but  this  is  her  first  party,  and  he  wants  it  to 
be  pleasant  for  her.  He  is  her  cousin,  you  know.  So 
he  is  introducing  all  the  best  men  to  her,  and  dan 
cing  the  cotillon  with  her  himself." 

"  She  ought  to  enjoy  herself,  I'm  sure,"  Randolph 
replied,  gravely.  "  You  know  her  very  well,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Guy,  and  felt  himself  blushing,  and 
was  angry  with  himself  for  it. 

"  Miss  Bonnymort  is  a  very  charming  young  lady." 

Guy  said  nothing. 

"  Hallo,"  Randolph  went  on,  in  a  moment,  "look 
at  John  Strang  !  Dancing  the  german  too  !  " 

Sure  enough,  John  was  sitting  with  pretty  Miss 
Ki^ty  Cotton.  His  elbows  were  squared  upon  his 
hat,  and  he  stared  straight  forward  with  an  air  as  if 
studying  a  chain  of  mountains  opposite  for  a  practi 
cable  opening  for  a  railway.  Lord  John  sat  in  the 
row  behind,  leaning  over  Miss  Cotton's  white  shoul 
der,  and  pouring  candied  nothings  in  her  ear.  On 
Strang's  red  face  was  an  expression  of  blended  rage 
and  martyrdom. 

"  Maud  Mliller,  by  Jove  !  "  said  Randolph. 

Maud  Miiller  it  certainly  was. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

She  should  never  have  looked  at  me 

If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her  ! 
There  are  plenty — men,  you  call  such, 

I  suppose — she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to.  if  she  pleases, 

And  yet  leave  much  as  she  found  them  : 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it, 

When  she  fixed  me,  glancing  round  them." — R.  BROWNING. 

to  Europe  with  me,  Guy,"  said  Ran- 
dolph. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Guy,  surprised,  "Oh,  no.  I've 
got  too  much  to  do." 

"  Bosh  !  "  answered  the  other,  wearily. 

This  interesting  conversation  took  place  one  snowy 
afternoon  of  that  winter.  Randolph,  ensconced  in 
the  sofa  in  Guy's  room,  was  taking  life  with  the 
good-natured  resignation  that  was  usual  with  him. 
He  was  a  most  beautiful  and  artistic  loafer,  a  green 
oasis  in  the  desert  of  American  social  life,  as  some 
travelled  American,  resident  in  Rome,  once  said  of 
him.  Merely  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  him  was  almost 
as  good  as  a  day  in  Naples.  He  bore  about  him  a 
mellow  atmosphere  of  intellectual  languor  that  was 
quite  Italian. 

"  You  ought  to  do  something,"  Guy  added,  gravely. 

"  I  do.     I  am  a  microcosm  of  the  day.     I  reflect 


GUERNDALE.  229 

the  manners,  customs,  and  ideas  of  the  time.  I  can 
say,  like  Dobson's  sun-dial  : 

1 1  am  a  Shade  :  a  Shadow  too  arte  thou  ; 
I  mark  the  time  ;  saye,  Gossip,  dost  thou  soe  ?  ' 

Bah  !  my  dear  boy,  don't  blame  me.  It  is  the  age 
we  live  in,  as  Dante  Savage  said  when  blamed  with 
being  Agnostic,  Ritualist,  Comtist,  and  Pagan,  all 
in  one  day.  Besides,  I  have  a  work  before  me.  I 
think  of  marching  to  the  relief  of  Candahar." 

Guy  looked  at  Randolph  dubiously,  uncertain 
whether  he  were  in  earnest  or  not.  For  he  was  quite 
capable  of  turning  up  at  Candahar  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  or  at  any  other  place. 

''America/'  murmured  Randolph,  "has  had  two 
great  missions.  Her  first,  was  to  liberate  the  world. 
Her  present  one  is  to  vulgarize  it.  She  is  now  a  co 
lossal  market.  I  am  not  in  the  market.  So,  occasion 
ally,  I  have  to  fly  from  America  and  from  other  com 
mercial  countries,  to  brush  off  the  dust  of  business  in 
foreign  fields.  Now  and  then,  like  the  raven,  I  re 
turn  to  look  for  the  first  glimpses  of  civilization  above 
the  traffic  sea.  But  I  have  not  yet  detected  so  much 
as  a  darned  sand-bank.  No,  it  is  not  all  affected 
prejudice.  There  is  something  narrowing  and  dark 
about  trade.  Anciently,  civilization  was  based  on 
the  superiority  of  one  man  over  another  in  nobler 
qualities  ;  now  it  is  all,  who  can  get  the  best  of  the 
bargain.  Now,  it  is  to  sell  ;  formerly  it  was  to  ex 
cel.  Everything  nowadays  is  made  to  be  sold  ;  just 
as  political  economy  teaches  that  all  values  depend 
on  exchange,  not  possession.  A  man  has  ability, 


230  GUERNDALE. 

brains— what  will  it  bring  ?  A  girl  has  beauty,  pu 
rity,  refinement — what  can  she  get  with  them  ?  A 
man  has  acquired  reputation,  honor — what  shall  be 
given  for  them  ?  There  was  a  deeply  philosophical 
youngster  down  in  Maine,  to  whom  his  father  gave 
a  long  lecture  on  the  great  value  of  a  good  name,  ac 
quired  by  long  years  of  probity  and  honorable  con 
duct.  But  when  ought  I  to  sell  it,  pa  ?  said  he. 
You  know  the  latest  decalogue  ? 

1  Swear  not  at  all ;  for  of  thy  curse 
Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse : 
Thou  shalt  not  steal ;  an  empty  feat, 
When  it's  so  lucrative  to  cheat : 
Thou  shalt  not  covet ;  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition! ' 

Great  heavens,  my  mother  wants  me  to  go  into  busi 
ness.  I  don't  wTant  to  make  a  fortune  any  more  than 
I  want  to  go  to  Congress  ;  and  I  couldn't  do  either. 
Modern  trade  is  simply  low  competition  ;  vying  with 
Chinese  in  petty  shifts,  and  Jews  in  meanness,  and 
Yankees  in  '  financial  irregularities.'  If  you  are 
sharp  and  unscrupulous,  and  popular  with  vulgar 
acquaintances,  and  don't  mind  lying  a  good  deal,  you 
will  get  along — perhaps.  But  you  must  practise 
taking  advantage  of  your  neighbor  ;  soliciting  fa 
vors  from  men  you  despise  ;  accompanying  your  Jew 
correspondents  and  country  customers  on  low  tours 
of  city  dissipation.  And  you  must  make  yourself 
used  to  crooked  ways  of  attaining  your  ends  ;  if  you 
wish  your  customer  to  buy  one  piece  of  goods,  you 
must  make  him  think  you  wish  to  sell  him  another. 
Even  then,  the  squarely  dishonest  man,  your  compel- 


GUERNDALE.  231 

itor,  buying  on  credit,  making  pretence  without 
capital,  who  can  content  himself  with  a  shaving  of 
profit,  and  does  not  mean  to  pay  if  things  go  wrong, 
has  an  immense  advantage  over  you.  Worst  of  all, 
you  must  suit  yourself,  just  as  you  suit  your  goods, 
to  the  taste  of  commercial  travellers  and  drummers  ; 
you  must  tell  their  stories,  and  sing  their  songs — 
songs  like  that  one  Hackett  used  to  sing  in  college  ; 
and  if  you  wish  to  retain  any  part  of  your  gentle  self, 
you  must  change  your  manners,  tastes,  views  of  life, 
character,  every  time  you  change  your  coat  for  din 
ner,  and  keep  your  social  life  in  the  evening  totally 
distinct  from  your  business  life  in  the  day.  That  this 
is  impossible,  American  society  is  beginning  to  show." 

'  You  do  not  mean  half  of  that." 

"  True,  on  the  other  hand,  our  country  (I  will  not 
say  our  civilization)  is  an  immense  success.  Hog 
and  hominy  we  can  produce  in  quantities  hitherto 
unknown.  And  for  any  one  whose  wants  are  lim 
ited,  metaphorically  speaking,  by  hog  and  hominy, 
America  is  a  paradise." 

"But  the  professions  are  different  from  the  dry 
goods  business  — 

"  Not  a  bit.  Sharp  practice  and  vulgarity  in 
smaller  lumps,  that  is  all.  But  why,  in  the  name  of 
Lucretius,  do  you  do  anything  ?  The  highest  aim  of 
life  is  self-expansion  ;  assertion  of  one's  essence,  as 
Arnold  says.  America  may  be  the  place  for  Strang 
and  Symonds,  but  not  for  you." 

"  Because  I  entirely  disagree  with  you.  I  believe 
in  America,  her  civilization,  and  her  future.  And  I 
mean  to  take  an  active  part  in  it  myself." 


232  GUERNDALE. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Randolph,  relapsing  into  lan 
guor,  "pardon  my  suggestion.  When  you  find  your 
self  ready  to  adopt  it,  I  will  meet  you  in  Florence. 
Where  is  John  ? " 

"  Calling  on  Miss  Kitty  Cotton,  I  fancy.  I  wonder 
if  there  is  any  chance  of  her  loving  him  ? " 

"Loving?  Miss  Cotton  loving?  God  bless  my 
soul,  Guy,  don't  use  such  improper  expressions." 

Guy  laughed.  "  What  new  crank  have  you  got 
now,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  evident,  Guy,  that  you  have  not  felt 
the  refining  influence  of  sisters.  Both  your  mind 
and  your  language  need  chastening.  Had  you  been 
one  of  a  numerous  family,  you  would  have  learned 
that  the  young  ladies  of  our  sort  of  people  may  like 
a  man,  but  never  love  him.  They  would  shrink 
from  it  as  improper." 

"  Correct  me  as  you  please  ! "  laughed  Guy. 

"  To  put  your  thought  in  refined  language,  such 
as  I  hear  used  by  my  sisters  and  their  friends,  the 
question  is  :  Will  she  take  him  ?  That  will  depend 
upon  another  question  :  Can  she  do  better  ?  Now,  if 
you  pass  John's  merits  into  the  personal  equation  of 
her  mind,  you  have  the  exact  mathematical  proba 
bility  of  her  marrying  him.  The  common  sense  of 
our  fair  friends  may  be  trusted  implicitly.  At  least 
in  one  respect,  we  have  arrived  at  the  golden  age. 
We  might  leave  our  young  ladies  of  society  with 
silken  ladders  from  every  window,  and  not  so  much 
as  a  serenade,  far  less  an  elopement,  would  ensue. 
Chaperons  are  now  a  sort  of  survival  from  past 
conditions.  Like  the  buttons  on  the  tail  of  a  dress- 


GUERNDALE.  233 

coat,  they  are  merely  conventional  ornaments  or 
appendages." 

"Good  Gad!"  Randolph  went  on,  sleepily. 
"Fancy  a  girl's  allowing  her  heart  to  fall  in  love 
without  a  warrant  duly  signed  and  countersigned 
from  the  head  !  Time  enough  for  her  to  love  after 
she  is  married,  when  she  hasn't  anything  better 
to  do  ! " 

At  this  juncture  a  heavy  step  was  heard  upon  the 
stairs,  stamping  louder  as  it  approached  ;  the  door 
was  flung  open,  and  John  Strang  walked  in,  hurled 
himself  savagely  upon  a  reclining-chair,  which 
crushed  under  him,  and  left  him  prostrate  amid 
the  debris,  whence  he  called  feebly  for'beer. 

"  '  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 
Prithee,  why  so  pale  ?  '  " 

quoted  Randolph.  "  Ah,  John — this  comes  of  seek 
ing  to  perpetuate  the  universal  evil  of  birth  and 
death.  The  best  gift  is  a  hard  heart  and  a  good 
digestion. 

1  For  man  may  love  of  possibilite 
A  woman  so,  his  herte  may  to-breste 
And  she  nought  love  ageyn,  but  if  hire  leste. '  " 

John  gave  a  grunt  of  approval. 

"  How  idiotic  it  is  !  A  man  develops  his  character 
slowly,  acquires  his  education  bit  by  bit,  builds  up 
his  strength,  and  then  paf  !  it  is  all  beside  the  point ; 
and  the  sole  question  is  whether  the  result  happens 
to  be  pleasing  to  some  chit  of  a  girl.  If  all  that  he 
has  made  himself  does  not  suit  her,  let  him  go  hang. 


234  GUERNDALE. 

Well,  if  the  assault  is  to  be  fatal  and  final,  don't  let 
it  come  too  early." 

"  Bosh  !  "  said  John.  "  Women  are  like  stinging- 
nettles.  Handle  'em  boldly,  and  they  don't  hurt." 

"  Now,  with  some  men  I  know,"  Randolph  went 
on,  "  to  be  deeply  in  love  is  like  the  state  of  having 
committed  some  disgraceful  act.  A  person  who 
loves  sincerely  is  usually  laughed  at  by  the  world  ; 
and  the  more  earnest  he  is,  the  more  ridiculous  he 
becomes.  He  must  keep  it  secret,  like  shame.  His 
best  friends  must  not  know  of  it ;  and  the  stronger 
and  purer  it  is,  the  harder  it  is  for  him  to  disguise 
it,  and  the  more  necessary  for  him  to  adopt  the 
commonplace  and  degrading  pleasures  of  those  about 
him.  Purity  in  a  man  is  bad  policy  ;  it  gives  him  a 
reverence  for  women  fatal  in  love  affairs  ;  they  like 
to  be  treated  as  a  polite  man  treats  a  woman  of  the 
demi-monde.  But  tell  me,  John,  since  you  are  bent 
on  continuing  the  evils  of  birth,  death,  sickness,  and 
old  age — has  your  dulcinea  the  marks  of  perfection 
which  the  divine  Buddh  tells  us  they  should  possess  ? 
Are  her  gait,  limbs,  and  figure  perfect  ?  Is  she  fond 
of  pleasant  recreations  ?  Heart  virtuously  submis 
sive  ?  Handy  in  female  pursuits  ?  No  levity  ?  Hating 
sensuality,  anger,  and  doubt  ?  Ah,  me  ;  I  fear  few  of 
our  modern  belles  would  pass  the  old  Hindoo  tests." 

But  John  was 'silent.  Either  he  was  provoked  at 
Randolph's  raillery,  or  he  regretted  his  early  confi 
dence,  and  did  not  wish  to  talk  about  his  troubles.  In 
stead  of  replying,  he  filled  his  pipe ;  and  his  visage  grew 
once  more  serene  under  a  softening  halo  of  smoke. 

"Ah,"  said  Randolph,  "  that  theory  that  this  world 


GUERNDALE.  23$ 

is  hell,  and  we  are  all  the  bad  people  of  another  world, 
being  punished  here  for  the  crimes  we  committed 
there,  would  be  a  very  consoling  one  if  it  were  true. 
But  conscious  existence  vibrates  like  a  pendulum 
between  pain  and  ennui.  Why  do  you  lovers  seek 
to  perpetuate  it  ?  We  look  in  the  tumult  of  this 
world  ;  we  see  all  men  occupied  with  its  torments, 
uniting  all  their  efforts  to  satisfy  endlessly  recurring 
needs,  to  preserve  themselves  from  a  thousand  forms 
of  misery  ;  and  we  know  that  they  can  dare  to  hope 
for  nothing  more  than  the  preservation,  for  a  short 
time,  of  the  consciousness  which  makes  this  suffering- 
possible.  And  behold  !  In  the  middle  of  the  mess 
we  see  two  lovers  making  sheeps-eyes  at  each  other. 
Why  do  they  clothe  it  in  such  mystery  ?  Why  so 
shy  and  shamefaced  ?  Because  lovers  are  traitors. 
They  work  in  secret  to  perpetuate  a  state  of  affairs 
which,  without  their  meddling,  might  come  to  an 
end.  Now  a  girl,  at  least,  marries  for  sensible,  solid 
reasons— money,  and  position,  and  so  forth." 

John  feebly  kicked  his  heels  against  his  chair,  but 
Randolph  had  found  a  new  text,  and  went  on. 

"  Why,  after  all,  should  we  blame  a  girl  for  being 
ambitious  ?  Are  men,  then,  totally  free  from  that 
fault  ?  Most  men  give  their  lives  to  it." 

"Men,"  broke  in  Guy,  "are  usually  ambitious 
because  they  love  their  wives  and  children,  or  wish 
to  win  a  woman,  or  have  a  desire  for  fame.  But  they 
rarely  mix  ambition  with  love,  and  scarce  one  but 
would  sacrifice  ambition  for  love." 

"  Doubted.  Besides,  consider — a  woman  has  only 
one  way  of  exercising  ambition  ;  that  is,  to  make  a 


236  GUERNDALE. 

brilliant  marriage.  But  men  have  a  thousand  ways. 
They  have  money,  power,  fame  to  seek  for  always  ; 
they  can  be  all  their  lives  bettering  themselves.  A 
woman  can  only  do  so  once.  After  marriage  she  has 
no  field  except  a  limited  social  possibility  ;  and  even 
that  depends  upon  the  husband  she  has  chosen.  It  is 
certainly  very  unfortunate  that  this  one  opportunity 
of  worldly  aggrandizement  should  be  found  in  love, 
which  we  like  to  keep  somewhat  poetical.  It  is  sad 
that  what  to  a  man  is  the  highest  period  of  his  life, 
when  he  shows  the  noblest  emotions,  should  be  to  a 
woman  the  lowest,  when  she  displays  the  most  sordid 
motives.  Undoubtedly  in  a  love  affair  the  man  usually 
appears  better  than  the  woman.  He  is  particularly 
ideal,  she  uncommonly  real.  That  is  why  he  is  the 
one  that  is  ridiculed.  Who  ever  laughed  at  the  beg 
gar  maid  for  marrying  King  Cophetua  ?  But  how 
can  we  blame  the  dear  creatures  for  using  the  one 
chance  they  have  ?  Besides,  it  may  be  the  affair  of 
instinct,  not  of  calculation.  We  learn  from  St.  Her 
bert  Spencer  that  those  creatures  survive  which  have 
tastes  best  fitted  to  their  environment,  so  perhaps  we 
have  evolved  a  breed  of  girls  with  hearts  only  capa 
ble  of  loving  eligible  men." 

Guy  was  impatiently  tapping  the  window-pane. 
John  smoked  grimly.  Randolph,  though  usually  a 
tactful  man,  went  on. 

"A  philosopher  like  you,  Strang,  should  learn  to 
take  women  as  they  are.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that 
every  girl  starts  in  life  with  an  ideal  romantic 
enough  to  suit  Guy  himself.  But  she  soon  learns 
that  she  cannot  realize  the  ideal  ;  and  the  next  best 


GUERNDALE.  237 

thing  is  to  idealize  the  real.  And  it  is  easier  to  get 
money  and  position,  and  idealize  upon  that  founda 
tion,  than  it  is  to  realize  true  love  and  attempt  by 
idealizing  to  supply  money  and  position.  Ah,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  plain,  practical  good  sense  of  our 
American  girls  what  would  become  of  us  !  Bless 
the  dear  creatures — bless  them  !  " 

"Oh,  stop  him,  somebody,"  groaned  John,  feebly. 
"  Please  pass  the  tobacco-jar,  Guy,  and  ask  that 
sour-minded  Cassandra  if  he  will  phase  be  so  kind  as 
to  go  to  the  devil — where  he  belongs." 

"  My  boy,  if  I  only  had  a  devil  to  go  to,  I  should 
be  perfectly  happy.  A  devil,  or  a  wife,  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort — something  to  believe  in,  at  all 
events,  whether  to  cherish  or  eschew.  A  dear  old 
Bible  verb,  that  last  ?  " 

"  Randolph,"  said  Guy  earnestly,  "do  you  seri 
ously,  at  your  age  of  twenty-seven,  pretend  to  disbe 
lieve  in  all  women  ?  " 

"  How  grave  we  are,  all  of  a  sudden  !  But  please 
don't  accuse  me  of  saying  things  for  effect.  I  may 
say  things  half  in  earnest — but  that  is  quite  differ 
ent.  Really,  if  I  could  say  anything  wholly  in  ear 
nest,  I  would.  But  I  am  more  in  earnest  in  my  half- 
earnestness,  than  that  amiable  old  blatherskite  I 
heard  preach  last  Sunday  was  in  his  whole  earnest 
ness.  As  for  women,  they 

1  Ever  prefer  the  audacious,  the  wilful,  the  vehement  hero  , 
She  has  no  heart  for  the  timid,  the  sensitive  soul ;  and  for  knowl 
edge,— 

Knowledge,  O  ye  Gods  ! — when  did  they  appreciate  knowledge? 
Wherefore  should  they,  either  ?     I  am  sure  I  do  not  desire  it.'  " 


238  GUERNDALE. 

"  Well,  but  answer  my  question — and  stop  that 
drivel  of  quotation,"  added  Strang. 

"  Well,  O  Yankee,  well — if  I  disbelieved  in  all 
women,  I  should  be  wholly  in  earnest  in  saying  so  ; 
which,  from  the  nature  of  my  character,  is  impossi> 
ble.  Q.  E.  D.  Seriously,  then — Did  you  ever  read, 
in  the  Demi-Monde^  Dumas's  allegory  of  the  p'echcs  d 
quinze  sons  ?  He  says,  you  go  to  the  market,  you 
find  a  basket  of  peaches  :  they  are  large,  ripe,  fresh, 
fragrant,  perfect — one  franc  apiece.  Next  to  this 
basket  you  find  another.  It  contains  peaches  of  the 
same  size,  the  same  appearance,  apparently  the  same 
freshness  and  perfection.  But  you  examine  each 
one  closely,  and  you  find  in  each  one  just  something 
lacking.  Here  it  is  a  speck  ;  this  is  a  bit  hard  ; 
another  a  trifle  over-ripe.  They  are  peaches  a  quinze 
sous." 

"Well?" 

"Well.  I  don't  deny  that  genuine  girls  still  exist. 
I  suppose  they  still  grow,  like  sound  claret  and  pure 
Havana  tobacco.  But  they  are  not  found  at  every 
dinner  party  ;  they  are  not  to  be  got  at  each  market 
in  TattersalTs.  And  this  is  how  :  the  most  fatal  of 
gifts  for  a  woman  is  fascination.  If  she  once  gets 
that,  she  loses  the  natural  desire  for  the  love  of  one  ; 
she  must  have  the  admiration  of  all ;  and  becomes — 
not  a  peche  d  quinze  sous,  but  a  peche  a  quinze  francs. 
Did  you  ever  go  to  the  exhibition  of  a  horticultu 
ral  society  ?  There  you  will  find  baskets  of  peaches 
d  quinze  francs.  They  are  far  superior  to  ordinary 
peaches  ;  larger,  rounder,  richer ;  not  a  fault  in 
their  fragrance,  not  a  blemish  in  their  bloom.  There 


GUERNDALE.  239 

they  lie,  admired  by  all  that  come  to  the  fair,  with 
the  steady,  lasting  blush  of  beauty,  not  of  modesty. 
All  praise  them  ;  most  of  us  desire  them  ;  few  dare 
touch  them;  none  can  afford  to  buy  them.  You  may 
look  on  all  sides  of  them;  in  their  perfection  you  will 
find  neither  speck  nor  stain.  But  what  is  the  end 
of  them  ?  Who  knows  ?  They  are  peaches  a  quinze 
francs  ;  they  are  show  peaches,  not  grown  to  be  eaten. 
Perhaps  some  poor  fellow  has  been  wretched  because 
he  could  not  get  them  ;  they  care  little  for  that,  they 
are  there  to  be  admired.  So  they  stay  till  the  end 
of  the  fair  ;  every  one  has  seen  and  praised  them  : 
they  are  the  beauties  of  the  show.  But  then  what 
becomes  of  them  ?  Perhaps  some  nabob  buys  them  ; 
perhaps  they  are  musty  and  have  to  be  thrown 
away  ;  perhaps  some  poor  fellow  gets  them  when  the 
fair  is  ended,  esteeming  himself  very  fortunate,  and 
finds  them  rather  flavorless,  after  all.  They  have 
exhaled  their  fragrance  ;  their  inner  sweetness  has 
gone  to  preserve  that  velvet  bloom  you  admired  in 
the  market  last  week  ;  they  have  been  too  *ong  in 
the  crowded,  perfumed  hall.  Now  the  show  is  over, 
and  perhaps  the  happy  possessor  would  rather  have 
the  ordinary  fruit  of  to-day,  fresh  from  the  orchard. 
See,  there  they  come  ;  cool  and  sweet  in  the  basket, 
and  only  thirty  sous  apiece  !  For  God's  sake,"  Ran 
dolph  ended,  almost  fiercely,  "  beware  of  peaches  a 
quinze  francs  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  John.     "  That  all  ?  " 

"That  is  all." 

"Well!" 

"Well,"  said  Randolph,  languidly,  as  if  ashamed 


24O  GUEKNDALE. 

of  his  previous  heat,  "  Dumas  has  warned  you  against 
the  peaches  d  quinze  sous — du  demi  monde.  I  warn  you 
against  those  a  quinze  francs — du  grand  monde.  Selah  ! 
It  is  spoken." 

Guy,  all  in  thinking  how  different  Annie  was  from 
the  girls  Randolph  had  been  describing,  saw  his 
motive,  and  approved  it. 

"  I  wonder  whether  any  of  the  girls  Ave  know  are 
fcches  d  quinze  francs ,"  said  he. 

"  Damn  it,"  cried  John,  "what  are  you  two  fellows 
driving  at  ?  What's  the  moral  of  it  all  ? " 

"  The  moral  is,  you  shouldn't  pay  over  twenty  sous 
for  a  peach,"  laughed  Guy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Je  suis  pescheur  ;  je  le  sgais  bien ;  Pourtant  Dieu  ne  veult  pas  ma  mort,  Mais 
convertisse  et  vive  en  bien." — VILLON. 

GUY  often  regretted  that  he  saw  so  little  of  Philip 
Symonds  in  these  days.  Norton  Randolph  was 
all  very  well,  but  he  missed  the  genuine,  healthy  gayety 
and  animal  spirits  of  his  dear  old  friend.  And  Philip 
was  not  living  in  a  way  he  altogether  approved  of, 
Guy  would  sometimes  fear.  In  some  ways  he  even 
seemed  a  little  weak.  His  business  of  stockbroking 
was  rather  a  mystery  to  Guy.  He  believed  it  was  all 
right ;  many  gentlemen  he  knew  were  in  it,  but  even 
the  terminology— the  puts,  calls,  margins,  bulls, 
bears,  pools,  corners — was  repulsive  to  him.  It 
seemed  an  unhealthy,  hazardous  sort  of  thing  for  a 
business,  and,  such  as  it  was,  he  feared  Phil  did  not 
stick  to  it  very  closely.  Guy  tried  very  hard  not  to 
have  priggish  prejudices  ;  perhaps  he  recognized 
wine  and  cards  and  fast  horses  and  women  as  sources 
of  pleasure  necessary  to  some  men,  and  not  perma 
nently  degrading.  Yet  he  never  could  joke  about 
them  quite  so  lightly  as  some  of  the  men  he  met  in 
New  York  and  Newport  used  to  do.  Randolph  him 
self,  despite  his  cynicism,  was  singularly  averse  to 
dissipation. 


242  GUERNDALE. 

Be  not  shocked,  dear  matrons  who  read  these 
pages  ;  we  are  beginning  to  reach  the  complexities 
of  civilization  in  America  ;  we  are  no  longer  in  that 
curious  little  Arcadia  formerly  New  England,  which 
perhaps  still  exists  in  the  imagination  of  New  Eng 
land  women.  We  are  in  the  world  and  of  it  ;  and 
if  you  send  your  son  to  Cambridge,  New  England, 
it  will  be  like  Cambridge,  old  England,  and  he  will 
meet  all  kinds  of  men,  no  longer  scholars  in  an 
academy,  to  think  of  vice  as  something  that  exists 
only  "across  the  water."  And  if  Phil  Symonds  fell 
easily  into  the  easier  path  at  twenty-five,  with  fifteen 
thousand  a  year,  and  little  or  nothing  to  do,  and 
sought  to  realize  a  little  Paris  of  his  own  in  sober 
Boston,  it  was  not  for  his  companions  of  his  own  age 
to  play  the  parent  to  him. 

Still  Guy  did  not  like  it.  And  as  much  as  he 
could — for,  after  all,  Phil  was  his  old  friend  and 
hero,  and  Guy  was  a  gentleman — he  hinted  to  Phil 
his  disapproval,  and  Symonds  did  not  like  it,  and 
used  to  snub  him,  swear  at  him,  or  laugh  at  him, 
according  as  they  were  in  a  crowd,  alone,  or  with 
one  or  two  friends.  Meantime  Guy,  being  given, 
heart,  soul  and  imagination,  to  the  love  of  Annie 
Bonnymort,  and  working  all  he  could,  and  only 
resting  to  think  about  her  ;  and  Philip  so  given  to 
dissipation  that,  instead  of  dissipating  his  energies 
in  various  pursuits,  he  most  conscientiously  concen 
trated  them  all  on  his  pleasures  ;  the  moods  of  the  two 
friends  did  not  harmonize,  and  they  saw  little  of  one 
another.  While  Guy  was  going  like  a  school-boy  to 
his  lessons  every  day,  and  studying  his  profession  that 


GUERNDALE.  243 

he  might  make  a  fortune  for  the  lady  he  wished 
to  marry,  Philip  was  the  hero  and  giver  of  suppers 
and  dinners  innumerable,  and  was  spending  his  for 
tune,  but  not  on  the  woman  he  wished  to  marry.  And 
withal  everybody  liked  Phil  and  spoke  a  good  word 
for  him,  and  half  the  town  called  him  by  his  first 
name.  He  was  a  handsome,  manly  fellow  then,  with 
deep  blue  eyes,  and  a  yellow,  military  mustache,  and 
a  fascinating  dash  of  wild  oats  about  him.  Withal, 
he  was  the  very  top  of  the  fashion  ;  young  ladies 
secretly  admired  him,  and  told  romantic  stories 
about  him  ;  mammas  thought  he  had  a  fine  fortune, 
and  it  was  a  pity  he  did  not  settle  down ;  and  all  the 
masculine  world  swore  he  was  a  damned  good  fellow  ; 
an  easy-going,  good-hearted  fellow,  as  Randolph 
would  admit.  Lord  John  Canaster  had  long  since 
left  town,  with  a  deep  respect  for  Philip's  powers 
as  a  poker  player  ;  but  the  genial  William  Bixby  had 
arrived  in  a  Cunarder  in  a  state  of  collapse,  and, 
upon  being  revived  at  the  club,  was  slowly  getting 
over  the  effect  of  ozone,  sea-air,  and  too  much  sleep, 
and  building  up  his  exhausted  constitution  on 
brandy  and  soda,  early  morning  card  parties,  and 
tobacco  smoke  ;  and  between  Bixby  and  Symonds 
was  a  noble  emulation.  The  following  summer 
all  Newport  was  astounded  at  the  pace  they  made. 
Polo,  anise-bag  hunts,  were  not  as  yet ;  but  the  speed 
of  yachts,  and  the  bouquet  of  wines,  and  the  points 
of  horses  were  understood  and  appreciated  even  at 
that  early  date.  And  of  all  these  things  of  mammon, 
it  was  a  question  whether  Symonds  or  Bixby  had 
had  the  most  added  unto  him  :  though  each  would 


244  GUERNDALE. 

courteously  have  yielded  the  pas  to  the  other  in 
seeking  the  kingdom  of  God. 

It  is  possible  to  spend  a  fortune,  even  in  America, 
though  a  country  properly  designed  only  for  making 
one.  And  Tom  Brattle,  who  was  impecunious,  used 
to  complain  piteously  of  the  way  Phil  wasted  his. 
Perhaps  it  is  true  that  Tom  did  his  little  share  in 
the  devouring  thereof.  But  Tom's  modest  needs 
were  so  cheaply  satisfied,  that  his  frugal  stewardship 
in  other  directions  made  his  entertainment  rather  a 
saving  to  Phil  than  otherwise.  Give  him  a  berth  on 
Phil's  yacht,  a  handful  of  Upmann  exquisites  a  day, 
and  a  reasonable  quantum  of  fizz  (though  he  hon 
estly  preferred  gin  and  ginger- ale),  and  he  was  quite 
content.  But  it  grieved  him  to  the  soul  to  see  Philip 
sling  around  liquors,  and  money,  and  cigars,  among 
the  general  herd,  or  lose  a  thousand  dollars  a  night 
to  Pat  Flush,  of  nobody  knew  where,  when  cruising 
with  the  New  York  yacht  squadron.  For  Thomas 
Brattle  was  a  prudent  youth,  wTith  old  Bay  State  con 
servatism,  and  never  "  raised"  the  "  limit  "  under  a 
"full  house,"  aces  up. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Phil's  foresail  began  to 
shake  in  the  wind  a  little.  For  whereas  his  father 
had  left  him  a  cool  three  hundred  thousand,  his  trus 
tees  wrote  him  that  in  future  he  could  not  safely  spend 
over  seven  thousand  a  year.  His  mother  had  been 
left  her  bare  legal  share,  under  his  father's  will  ;  had 
promptly  married  again,  and  was  now  devoting  her 
self  to  a  second  family  of  children  and  a  High 
Church  chapel.  Moreover,  Philip  Symonds  was 
not  a  man  to  take  petticoat  aid  in  money  matters,  as 


GUERNDALE.  245 

he  thought  to  himself.  Yes,  he  reflected,  as  he  wan 
dered  up  Mill  Street  one  evening  from  his  yacht, 
Bixby  had  proved  too  many  for  him.  Bixby  could 
stand  it. 

For  Bixby  was  the  offspring  of  an  Americo-Paris- 
ian  banker,  of  no  particular  extraction,  who  had 
meant  his  sons  to  dazzle  their  way  into  home  society. 
With  that  end  in  view,  he  had  given  a  long  course 
of  extravagant  and  somewhat  vulgar  entertainments 
to  all  Americans  of  position,  who  came  to  Paris,  with 
the  usual  result  that  the  invited  fellow-citizens 
laughed  at  him,  the  uninvited  yearned  for  his  notice, 
and  his  home  compatriots  gaped  from  afar.  Norton 
Randolph,  who  had,  among  other  bits  of  curious 
knowledge,  some  acquaintance  with  the  ancient 
Saxon  law,  applied  the  name  of  snub-wites  to  these 
rich  offerings  upon  the  shrine  of  society.  And  Bixby, 
pere,  was  snubbed  all  the  same.  Now,  however, 
what  the  father's  wealth  failed  to  achieve,  the  son's 
good  fellowship  was  rapidly  accomplishing  ;  Billy 
was  decidedly  a  lion  in  Newport.  And  poor  Philip 
could  no  longer  emulate  him  in  the  splendor  that 
gilded  his  career. 

Philip  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  popular  men 
in  society,  except  among  his  intimate  friends  ;  and 
as  he  walked  into  the  little  club  that  day,  scene  of 
the  defeat  of  John  Canaster,  cum  proeliis  multis  aliis, 
the  cloud  upon  his  brow  drew  many  a  sympathizing 
inquiry  from  his  friends  gathered  about  him.  Shak- 
.  ing  them  off  with  a  shower  of  repartee  and  chaff, 
much  as  a  Newfoundland  dog  does  water,  he  went 
into  an  anteroom  and  called  for  brandy.  Philip  had 


246  GUERNDALE. 

superb  physical  health,  and  was  proud  of  it,  and  had 
usually  too  much  good  sense  to  play  with  it,  as  foolish 
little  Bixby  did.  So  that  when  he  called  for  brandy 
at  five  in  the  afternoon,  I  thought  something  was  up  ; 
and  Norton  Randolph  and  I  being  there,  though  he 
did  not  like  us,  he  was  led  to  talk,  and  more  or  less 
to  confide  in  us  and  condemn  his  lot. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove  !  "  he  concluded.  "  I  don't  see  any 
thing  left  but  marriage.  I  always  knew  I  should 
come  to  it  some  time — in  fact  it  was  quite  cut  and 
dried  for  me  long  ago,  by  my  family.  But  I  did  not 
think  it  would  be  so  soon." 

"  Not  before  you  were  cut  and  dry  yourself,  eh  ?  " 
said  Randolph,  smiling. 

"Well,  we  must  all  come  to  it  sometime.  Eh,  old 
fellow  ?  "  slapping  Randolph's  shoulder,  "  with  some 
nice,  rich  girl,  it  might  not  be  so  bad.  Decidemment, 
man  cher,  je  me  range." 

"That  is,"  said  Randolph  dryly,  "having  spent 
your  own  fortune,  you  want  to  spend  some  nice 
girl's  ?" 

"Damn  it,  Norton,"  replied  Phil  angrily.  "I 
wouldn't  take  that  from  any  fellow  but  you  !  No — 
but  you  see  it's  the  proper  thing,  I  suppose,  for  a 
fellow  to  marry.  For  instance,  I  now  have  ten  thou 
sand  a  year — a  married  man  can  live  very  well  on 
that.  But  a  bachelor  can't  possibly  manage  with 
less  than  twice  -as  much.  Why,  hang  it  all  !  I 
couldn't  on  thirty  !  " 

"  Really  ?  "  laughed  Randolph.  "  I  thought  it 
was  the  other  way." 

"  Why,  no.     You  see,  if  a  fellow  is  by  himself,  1 


GUERNDALE.  247 

wants  a  yacht,  and  a  T  cart  and  pair,  and  a  few  sad 
dlers  ;  and  then  his  travelling  and  dinners,  and  so 
forth — flowers  he  gives  girls — poker,  and  so  forth — 
and — and  other  things.  But  of  course,  if  a  man  is 
married  he  does  not  want  a  yacht,  or  flowers,  or 
many  horses,  or  other  things." 

"  True,"  said  Randolph.  "  I  did  not  think  of 
that." 

And  then  Phil  went  off  elated  ;  and  I  heard  him 
sowing  his  new  ideas  broadcast  among  the  other 
members  of  the  club.  This  entire  absence  of  reserve 
on  his  part  was  one  of  the  things  that  made  him  so 
universally  popular.  Every  one  believed  himself  to 
be  his  bosom  friend. 

We  sat  there  in  silence,  Randolph  puffing  his 
cigar.  Among  the  carriages  passing  through  the 
avenue  came  Mr.  Bonnymort's  staid  old  victoria, 
with  Miss  Bonnymort  and  her  maid.  She  was  pass 
ing  the  summer  in  Newport ;  but  they  lived  more 
quietly  than  most  of  the  people  there.  I  thought 
she  did  not  look  quite  happy  as  she  drove  by.  She 
cast  a  hasty,  unquiet  glance  into  the  club  in  passing, 
which  was  a  strange  thing  for  Miss  Bonnymort  to 
do.  "  There  goes  a  very  lovely  young  lady,"  said 
Randolph.  "Would  there  were  more  like  her!" 
The  remark  was  so  unlike  him,  that  I  looked  to  see 
if  he  were  quite  serious  ;  but  he  smoked  on,  appar 
ently  unconscious  of  my  observation.  Shortly  after 
this  he  seemed  to  become  rather  blue,  and  gave  short 
answers  to  my  remarks.  Just  then  Philip  Symonds 
^came  back,  in  his  usual  high  spirits  again.  "  By  the 
•yay,  Phil,  what  do  you  hear  of  Guy  ? "  said  Randolph, 


248  GUERNDALE. 

"  Guy  ?  Oh,  I  haven't  heard  for yes,  I  have,  too, 

though  ;  I  had  a  letter  this  morning.  Gad,  I  forgot 
to  read  it.  Grundy's  out  in  Arizona,  mulling  over 
mining  or  something  or  other."  And  Phil  pulled 
out  a  letter,  addressed  in  Guerndale's  familiar  cacog- 
raphy,  and  tossed  it  to  Randolph.  "  Read  it  aloud, 
old  man,"  said  he,  "while  I  light  a  pipe."  Randolph 
hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  Oh,  go  ahead.  We  haven't 
got  any  secrets." 

"  '  My  dear  Phil,'  "  began  Randolph.  "  '  I  am  go 
ing  to  bore  you  with  a  line  or  two  ;  though  I  fancy 
you  have  many  things  better  to  do  than  reading  my 
letters,  and  probably  won't,  for  a  week.  .  However,  I 
am  safe  in  Arizona,  which,  iust  now,  is  a  fine 'country 
to  make  you  value  a  whole  skin.  I  have  investigated 
several  mines  or  claims  already,  but  have  not  found 
much  of  anything  except  fine  scenery  and  sunsets. 
Perhaps  it  is  lucky  I  haven't,  as  a  gang  of  Mexicans 
and  half-breeds  dodge  about  the  hills  in  my  vicinity, 
apparently  with  the  intention  of  annihilating  me 
when  I  do. .  Still,  the  air  is  wonderful,  and  the  coun 
try  lovely ;  and  I  enjoy  the  fresh,  out-door  life. 
Lane,  who  is  out  here  with  me,  you  know,  has  gone 
to  the  fort  for  reinforcements  ;  meantime,  camp  is 
rather  lonely,  but  I  maintain  a  man  ought  to  be  able 
to  get  along  with  himself  for  company. 

"  '  I  hear  great  stories  of  your  success  in  Newport, 
as  well  with  men  and  women  as  with  horses  and 
yachts.  Still,  I  can't  say  that  I  envy  you.  But  one 
thing  I  do  want  to  say,  old  fellow  ;  and  I  want  to 
write  this  time  about  you,  not  myself.  I  hear  you 
are  very  free,  not  to  say  wildly  extravagant,  at  New- 


GUERNDALE.  249 

port.  Now,  Phil,  old  boy,  do  brace  up.  If  you 
knew ' ' 

"Oh,  damn  it  all,  cut  the  sermon!"  cried  Phil. 
"  I  know  what  he's  driving  at." 

Randolph  turned  the  leaf,  and  went  on  impas 
sively  : 

"  'By  the  way,  you  remember  very  well  what  I 
told  you  long  ago  about  a  certain  old  friend  of  ours. 
Well,  I  have  now  a  great  favor  to  ask  you.  They 
are,  as  you  know,  in  Newport  this  summer  ;  and  I 
wish  you  would  write  once  in  a  while  and  tell  me 
something  about The  rest  seems  to  be  pri 
vate,"  said  Randolph,  and  he  handed  the  letter  back 
to  Phil. 

Just  then  we  were  interrupted  by  Tom  Brattle, 
who  burst  into  the  room,  gasping  inarticulately  : 

"  Bixby — for  God's  sake  !  For  God's  sake — Billy 
Bixby  ! " 

"What  the" — various  expletives — "is  the  row?" 
we  cried  as  one  man,  rising  from  our  seats.  But 
Brattle  was  choking  with  excitement  and  quite 
speechless.  All  that  we  could  make  out  was  that 
we  were  to  get  into  his  carriage  and  come  with  him. 
So  we  crowded  into  a  lumbering  barouche  and  there 
gathered  from  Brattle  the  whole  story.  It  was  serious 
enough;  but  I  cannot  still  think  of  it  without  laughing. 

It  seems  that  William  Bixby,  though  a  careless, 
happy-go-lucky  youth,  at  all  times  prone  to  such 
enjoyment  as  the  good  things  of  this  life  afford,  and 
only  too  ready  to  put  his  trust  in  whatever  substi 
tute  he  had  for  Providence,  was  yet  subject,  as  was 
only  known  to  his  best  friends,  to  dire  attacks  of  the 


250  GUERNDALE. 

blues.  No  one  knew  the  why  or  wherefore  of  this 
strange  caprice  of  a  system  far  from  atrabilious,  but 
his  sudden  reappearance  in  America,  following  on  a 
somewhat  erratic  European  itinerary,  had  aroused 
suspicions  ;  and  a  habit  he  had  of  referring  in  Man- 
fredian  tones  to  "Woman,"  when  in  his  cups,  had 
led  his  friends  to  believe  that  his  blues  were  engen 
dered  of  human  causes,  and  that  said  causes  were  of 
the  gender  feminine.  And  yesterday,  I  mean  the 
day  before  that  evening,  \vhile  on  his  yacht,  and 
bearing  sixty  nautical  miles  or  thereabouts  south- 
east-by-east  from  Block  Island  (though  how  the 
devil  did  he  ever  get  there,  suggested  the  mariner 
Brattle,  unless  he  was  steering  for  No-rnan's-land  in 
the  hope  of  finding  no  Woman  there),  in  a  blue  flan 
nel  shirt,  with  the  blue  sky  above  him,  and  the  blue 
sea  beneath  him,  drinking  blue  ruin  with  a  crew  clad 
in  blue,  an  attack  of  the  blues  came  on  him  so  far 
exceeding  all  other  attacks  of  the  blues  that  not  only 
did  he  not  recover  from  this  attack  of  the  blues  on  the 
following  day,  but,  having  drunk  all  the  afternoon, 
and  gone  on  drinking  all  the  evening,  over  poker 
with  Pat  Flush,  and  continued  drinking  through  the 
night  when  at  the  wheel  with  the  skipper,  and  started 
fresh  the  next  morning  \vith  his  other  guests,  he  sal 
down  again  that  afternoon  to  poker  with  Pat  Flush 
(whose  winnings  amounted,  by  that  time,  to  consid 
crabby  above  two  thousand  dollars)  and,  growing 
gloomier,  offered  said  Flush  to  bet  him  double  01 
quits  that  he,  William  Bixby,  would  drink  a  laud 
anum  cocktail  then  and  there,  said  beverage  con 
sisting,  as  he  kindly  explained,  of  equal  parts,  one 


GUERNDALE.  25 1 

ounce  each,  of  brandy,  absinthe,  and  tincture  of 
opium,  making  in  all  precisely  three  ounces  of  po 
table  fluid  which,  however,  even  Pat  Flush's  limited 
knowledge  of  materia  medica  declared  to  be  not 
wholesome.  And  said  Flush,  being  unusually  close- 
hauled  himself,  and  inclined  instinctively  to  follow 
the  impulse  which  led  him  to  sec  a  good  bet  and 
take  it,  having  promptly  closed  the  wager,  Bixby, 
to  his  horror,  had  produced  a  small  tumbler  contain 
ing  the  cocktail  in  question,  and,  having  swallowed 
it,  became,  shortly  thereafter,  unsociable  and  inclined 
to  sleep.  And  having  at  that  moment  Brenton's  reef 
lightship  on  the  lee  bow,  with  a  stiff  breeze  from  the 
southeast,  Pat  Flush,  sobered  by  his  scare,  went 
about  and  crowded  on  all  sail  for  Newport  harbor, 
first  detailing  two  of  the  crew  to  walk  the  deck  with 
Billy,  who,  for  their  pains,  regaled  them  with  a 
monologue  of  original  profanity  which,  for  ingenu 
ity  and  variety,  has  seldom  been  surpassed,  even  on 
blue  water.  And  finding  a  head  wind  up  the  harbor, 
Flush  had  landed  below  the  steamboat-wharf  and 
taken  Bixby  in  all  haste  to  the  city  hospital,  regard 
less  of  the  fate  of  his  bet  (though  he  afterward  de 
clared  that  he  believed  the  bet  would  have  been  off, 
in  any  event).  Here  he  left  Billy  in  charge  of  the 
resident  physician  and  three  guileless  young  internes 
from  a  neighboring  medical  school ;  and  going  off 
to  seek  Bixby's  friends,  found  us  at  the  club. 

When  we  fairly  got  at  the  truth  that  Bixby  had 
probably  poisoned  himself,  I  do  not  know  what 
the  other  men  felt,  but  I  was  never  more  cut  up 
in  my  life.  Philip  nervously  asked  a  great  many 


252  GUERNDALE. 

questions  which  Flush,  of  course,  could  not  answer. 
Randolph  smoked  silently  all  the  way,  tapping  the 
window-pane.  Flush  was  ghastly  pale,  and  I  verily 
believe  would  have  paid  double  the  bet  to  see  Bixby 
himself  again.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  by  thi's 
time  ;  Thames  Street  was  almost  deserted  ;  and,  as  we 
drove  by  the  docks,  we  looked  out  and  saw  the  tracery 
of  Bixby's  beautiful  yacht  against  the  sky.  The  master 
had  brought  her  into  the  harbor  since  Flush  landed. 

"Whom  are  we  to  write  to  ?  "  said  I,  "  if  Billy  — 

"I  only  know  of  his  father  in  Paris,"  answered 
Phil.  "We  can  telegraph  to  him." 

"Don't  say  that  Bixby  committed  suicide,  if  you 
do,"  said  Randolph. 

I  shuddered  at  hearing  the  name  given  to  it.  Af 
ter  this  we  were  silent  until  the  carriage  pulled  up 
at  a  low  brick  building,  with  a  wide  door,  which, 
for  some  reason,  suggested  stretchers  to  my  mind, 
and  the  carrying  them  out  through  it.  Flush  told 
us  Bixby  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  three  stu 
dents  and  a  male  attendant,  who  would  do  all  for 
him  that  could  be  done.  It  was  a  long,  narrow 
room,  with  a  row  of  empty  beds  down  either  side ; 
quite  dark,  except  for  a  single  gas-burner  which 
flared  over  a  group  of  men  in  the  further  corner. 

Implements  of  surgery,  hot  water,  and  black  bot 
tles  were  on  a  table  at  their  side  ;  and  the  three 
medical  students  and  the  attendant  were  all  grouped 
about  poor  Billy,  who  was  wide  awake,  smoking  a 
black  cigar,  and  instructing  the  attendant  and  the 
three  medical  students  in  the  mysteries  of  unlimited 
loo. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"  As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 

With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried." — CLOUGH. 

WHEN  the  sun  rose,  one  September  morning, 
and  peered  over  a  ridge  of  the  Cordillera 
de  Rio  Gila,  in  Pima  County,  Arizona,  he  was  doubt 
less  much  surprised  at  finding  Mr.  Guyon  Guern- 
dale,  of  Dale,  Massachusetts,  awake  and  awaiting 
him  in  the  valley  beyond.  Not,  perhaps,  so  much  at 
the  early  hour — for  the  sun,  having  summered  and 
wintered  the  earth  on  all  sides,  must  have  observed 
that  white  men  rise  earlier  in  Arizona  than  they  do 
in  Belgravia,  where,  indeed,  it  is  frequently  impos 
sible  for  him  to  see  them  through  the  smoke, — but  at 
;ho  unexpected  presence  of  any  white  man  at  all. 
And  Guy  himself  welcomed  the  sun  with  a  sigh  of 
relief ;  and,  rolling  over  upon  his  side,  filled  and 
lighted  a  short,  clay .  pipe.  After  this,  lie  gave 
himself  up  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  the  pleasures 
of  memory  as  personified  in  Miss  Bonnymort,  and 
the  pleasures  of  hope  as  embodied  in  his  expecta 
tion  of  seeino:  her  on  his  return  to  Boston. 


254  ~T    ERNDALE. 

As  a  mi%&  takes  his  treasures  from  his  chest,  Guy 
took  up  in  his  memory  the  several  hours  or  minutes 
he  had  passed  in  her  company  that  last  year,  and 
turned  them  over  in  his  mind.  It  was  now  two  years 
since  he  left  college  ;  and  for  one  year  he  had  defi 
nitely  sought  to  win  her  love.  She  seemed  very  fond 
of  him — only  a  month  before  he  had  had  a  letter, 
saying  how  much  she  missed  him  that  summer, — and 
he  doubted  whether  he  ought  to  wait  any  longer. 
Why  not  now  tell  her  of  a  love  which  he  had  long 
sought  to  let  her  see  ?  True,  he  was  not  rich  ;  but 
he  had  lately  had  some  flattering  successes,  and  with 
a  year  or  two  at  Freiberg  he  felt  that  he  should  soon 
stand  high  in  his  profession.  ...  It  was  a  curious 
thing,  by  the  way,  that  he  should  have  been  led  to 
adopt  this  profession.  Mining  had  once  proved  the 
ruin  of  his  family,  as  in  the  case  of  greedy  old  Guy  ; 
and  he,  this  present  Guy,  hoped  to  work  their  res 
toration  to  what  they  had  left  and  the  recovery  of 
vhat  they  had  lost.  .  .  .  He  took  the  old  jewel,  still 
uncut,  out  of  his  locket  and  looked  at  it  curiously.  It 
seemed  dull  and  pale  in  the  broad  daylight.  So,  for 
this  stone,  old  Guyon,  his  ancestor,  had  lost  his  life 
and  their  fair  name.  He  wondered  who  it  was  that 
first  gave  credence  to  that  strange  old  superstition 
about  the  ill-luck  which  would  attend  the  family 
as  long  as  they  retained  the  diamond.  And  Guy 
looked  at  the  locket,  with  its  proud  motto,  Settle  la 
mart  pent  nous  vaincre,  and  put  the  stone  back  in  its 
case,  and  fell  to  dreaming. 

Dreaming  :  for  his  summer's  work  was  done,  and 
well  done  ;  and  the  sun  grew  warmer,  and  the  morn 


GUERNDALE.  255 

mg  was  sleepy  and  hot,  and  the  turbid  little  rill  at  his 
side  had  a  tinkle  like  the  clear  brook  he  remembered 
in  years  gone  by,  falling  from  the  woods  behind  the 
old  brown  house  at  Dale.  .  .  .  What  a  queer, 
gloomy  child  he  must  have  been  before  he  had 
inown  Annie  !  How  she  had  changed  him !  But 
since  he  saw  her  he  had  never  changed,  except,  he 
hoped,  to  grow  more  worthy  of  her.  Yes  ;  he  had 
done  well  so  far  ;  the  past  was  past  and  gone  ;  he 
would  live  the  old  story  down,  ajid  go  out  into  the 
world.  The  fair,  broad  world  was  sweet,  after  all, 
and  a  worthy  thing  it  was  to  succeed  in  it,  though 
not  in  the  way  his  poor  father  had  wished.  He  could 
never  have  the  faith  of  a  priest ;  though,  with  Annie, 
he  could  find  that  faith  in  mankind  and  the  world 
which  his  father  had  lacked.  .  .  .  And  he  would 
keep  the  diamond,  and  wear  it  in  a  ring  if  he  chose. 
The  old  tale  of  ill-luck  must  have  begun  in  the  time 
of  the  witches  who  were  hanged  at  Salem.  Or,  better 
still,  he  would  put  the  stone  in  a  ring  and  give  it  to 
Annie  Bonnymort ;  and  so  he  would  lose  the  dia 
mond  when  they  two  were  happy  together,  that  the 
old  prophecy  might  be  fulfilled.  .  .  .  Yes,  he 
would  go  back  and  ask  Annie  to  be  his  wife.  She 
had  now  been  two  years  in  the  world  ;  she  had  seen 
enough  of  other  men  not  to  have  him  fear  entrap 
ping  her  with  a  childish  attachment.  But  she  had 
known  him  so  long,  and  he  had  loved  her  so  dearly  ; 
even  if  she  had  liked  him  in  a  different  way,  it  was 
for  him  to  say  the  magic  word  that  might  translate 
her  affection  into  love  like  his,  the  love  of  man  for 
woman.  She  had  seemed  to  care  for  him  move  than 


GUERNDALE. 

ever  this  past  year.  Her  sweet  manner  had  almost 
embarrassed  him  at  times ;  and  it  had  been  hard,  so 
hard,  for  him  to  keep  from  throwing  himself  at  her 
feet  and  telling  her  all.  His  constraint  had  even 
been  evident,  so  that  she  had  upbraided  him  with 
being  cold  and  forgetting  their  old  promise.  Now, 
thank  Heaven,  it  was  all  come  to  an  end,  and  all 
might  at  least  be  frank  and  open  between  them — at 
last,  and  forever. 

Two  things  yet  gave  him  trouble — the  lives  of  his 
mother  and  of  his  dearest  friend.  For  poor,  lonely, 
widowed  Mrs.  Guerndale  was  growing  old  before  her 
time,  and  more  and  more  retiring  from  the  world 
and  within  herself.  Only  the  past  was  alive  to  her  ; 
the  present  was  dead,  the  future  did  not  exist.  She 
barely  wrote  to  Guy  now  ;  and  he  sighed  as  he 
thought  of  her  dreary  life.  Then  there  was  Philip. 
The  dear  old  fellow  !  How  much,  too,  he  owed  to 
him  ;  how  near  he  was  to  being  perfect  !  Yet  Guy 
confessed  to  himself  in  his  reverie  what  he  never 
would  have  allowed  any  one  else  to  say — Philip  was 
weak  in  certain  ways.  His  very  weakness  sprang 
from  his  virtues,  his  kindliness,  his  good-fellowship, 
his  careless  generosity.  Still,  he  ought  to  be  different. 
But  then,  after  all,  how  could  he  help  it  ?  He  was 
so  popular  with  every  one,  and  his  friends  were  not 
all  of  the  best  sort.  Guy  \vished  he  would  write 
oftenei-.  Still,  Phil  was  never  much  of  a  correspond 
ent,  from  the  time  he  wrote  home  to  Guy,  ill  at  Dale 
with  a  fever,  that  he  had  "  likked  Arther  Salsberry 
because  he  sed  you  was  ded. " 

Here  Guy's  morning  meditations  were  interrupted 


GUERNDALE.  257 

by  Mr.  Lefauconeur  Lyndhurst  Lane,  of  Boston, 
who  came  out  of  camp  in  scanty  attire  for  his  morn 
ing  tub,  for  which  necessary  ceremony  it  was  his 
wont  to  construct  an  elaborate  dam  in  the  nearest 
little  stream  to  camp. 

Faucy  Lane,  of  Guy's  class  in  college,  who  was 
now,  on  account  of  his  supreme  amiability,  known 
among  the  members  of  the  expedition  as  Fawkes, 
had  been  chartered,  as  he  expressed  it,  by  a  number 
of  Eastern  capitalists  to  go  out  and  explore  a  num 
ber  of  mining  claims  they  had  purchased.  He  went 
in  company  with  a  Californian  mining  expert,  and 
some  of  the  capitalists  who  knew  young  Guerndale 
had  engaged  him  to  follow  and  serve  by  way  of 
check  on  the  notoriously  brilliant  imagination  of  the 
mining  expert  in  question.  Lane  knew  nothing  of 
mines,  but  as  it  was  the  intention  of  his  uncles  to 
make  him  treasurer  of  this  one,  it  was  thought  ad 
visable  that  he  should  see  it.  This  was  the  last  claim 
they  had  to  examine,  and  on  the  morrow  they  were 
off  for  El  Paso  and  civilization. 

Guy  went  on  smoking,  and  did  not  notice  the  pro 
ceedings  of  Lane,  who,  after  endeavoring  to  tub  suc 
cessfully  in  what  he  asserted  was  an  extremely  muddy 
stream,  began  to  scrub  himself  with  a  highly  civil 
ized  flesh-brush,  much  as  he  might  have  done  in 
the  paternal  bath-room.  The  mining  expert,  too, 
whose  ablutions  were  less  elaborate,  was  mysteri 
ously  busied  in  his  tent,  so  that  Lane  had  shouted 
once  or  twice  before  either  became  aware  that  his 
presence  was  desired.  Then  Guy  hurried  to  the 
brook,  and  found  Lane  on  his  hands  and  knees 


258  GUERNDALE. 

quite  unclothed,  and  gazing  into  a  particularly  tur 
bid  pool  which,  it  was  evident,  his  body  had  just  left. 

"Look  here! "said  he.  "I  think  I've  found  a 
gold  mine." 

Sure  enough,  floating  in  the  clayey  cloud  in  the 
water  were  a  number  of  little  yellow  specks,  rapidly 
settling  ;  and  among  the  more  earthy  motes,  where 
the  sunlight  shone  through  it,  was  the  unmistakable 
metallic  glint  of  gold. 

"You  have  done  it,  this  time!"  laughed  Guy. 
"  Send  a  gentleman,  after  all !  For  no  one  but  a 
gentleman  of  precise  habits  would  have  found  it  ne 
cessary  to  take  a  tub  in  the  nearest  little  pool  to 
camp  !  " 

"All  the  same,"  Lane  answered,  beginning  to 
wriggle  into  a  shirt,  "the  water  was  beastly  dirty." 

The  next  day  they  packed  up  traps  and  turned 
their  faces  to  the  East.  The  first  of  October  they 
were  in  San  Antonio  ;  thence  to  Galveston,  and  by 
steamer  to  New  Orleans ;  with  a  dozen  good  claims 
behind  them,  and  packages  of  reports  and  surveys  in 
their  pockets.  And  as  the  hills  of  Arizona  and  the 
sand  and  cactus  of  New  Mexico  gave  place  to  the 
parching  alkali  plains  of  Texas,  and  that  to  the  Llano 
Estacado,  and  then  pasture-land  and  prairie,  Guy 
turned  his  face  to  the  northeast  each  morning  and 
counted  how  many  miles  nearer  her  the  past  day  had 
brought  him, 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

*  And  on  his  guide  suddenly  Love's  face  turned 
And  in  his  blind  eyes  burned 
Hard  light  and  heat  of  laughter  ;  and  like  flame 
That  opens  in  a  mountain's  ravening  mouth 
To  blear  and  sear  the  sunlight  from  the  south 
His  mute  mouth  opened  and  his  first  word  came  : 
'  Knowest  thou  me  now  by  name?'" — SWINBURNE. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  with  its  low,  broad  streets, 
running///  to  the  river;  its  boulevards,. with 
the  li.itle  green  strips  of  park  in  the  centre  ;  its  for 
eign-looking  stone  houses  ;  its  quaint  French  mar 
kets ;  its  "shell  road,"  glory  of  jockeys  and  languid 
Creole  women ;  New  Orleans  and  its  delights,  after 
the  arid  asperities  of  Arizona,  proved  too  seductive 
for  Lane.  And  this  was  the  how  of  it. 

Lane,  wherever  he  went,  carried  the  air  of  Boston 
about  him  like  a  nimbus  of  east  wind.  The  only 
concession  he  was  ever  known  to  make  to  Trans- 
Carolian  habits  (it  may  here  be  necessary  to  remind 
less  classical  readers  that  the  holy  town  of  Boston  a 
sacred  river  pours  around,  yclept  the  Charles),  the 
only  modification  this  pure  Anglo-Saxon  ever  per 
mitted  in  his  ancient  British  habits,  was  the  carrying 
a  revolver.  For  Lane  fancied  that  the  average  ex- 
tra-Bostonian  American  usually  began  conversation 


260  GUERNDALE. 

with  a  pistol-bullet.  Now  he  never  would  have  used 
his  own  weapon  ;  moreover,  he  never  loaded  it,  and 
had  no  cartridges.  Upon  severe  provocation  he 
would  have  dropped  it,  and  struck  from  the  shoulder 
in  the  good  old  Saxon  way.  Still,  he  carried  a  pis 
tol  for  the  moral  effect ;  and  this,  he  used  to  say, 
was  prodigious,  especially  upon  himself. 

It  so  happened,  that  among  the  men  who  most  did 
frequent  the  rotunda  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  Lane 
passed  for  an  Englishman.  And  it  was  upon  a  tacit 
understanding  to  this  effect  that  he  was  one  day 
invited  to  join  the  company  of  Southern  chivalry 
who  pressed  about  the  bar  in  the  consummation  of 
a  standing  drink.  Lane  did  not  drink  ;  but  he  wafr 
so  considerate  a  fellow  that  he  would  not  have  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  in  hell  for  fear  of  injuring  the 
susceptibilities  of  the  devil.  So  he  complied,  or  was 
upon  the  point  of  complying,  when  a  somewhat 
drunken  fellow,  pushing  between  him  and  his  host, 
knocked  the  glass  from  his  hand,  with  the  remark 
that  he,  Lane,  was  a  damned  Boston  Yank.  At  this 
point,  Lane  so  far  forgot  the  calm  of  good-breeding 
as  to  "punch  "  the  interlocutor's  head. 

The  other  drew  a  long,  curved  knife. 

Lane  promptly  covered  him  with  his  (moral)  re 
volver,  and  at  once  became  himself  the  focus  of  the 
revolvers  of  the  rest  of  the  company.  Tableau. 

It  was  from  this  scene  that  Lane  was  extricated 
by  Colonel  Huger  Gayarre,  late  of  the  Confederate 
army,  with  whom  he  dined  upon  the  same  evening, 
and  with  both  of  whose  two  daughters,  as  far  as  his 
sense  of  propriety  permitted,  he  incontinently  and 


GUERNDALE.  26 1 

impartially  fell  in  love.  Thus  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Lefauconeur  Lane  remained  behind  in  New  Orleans, 
where,  as  rumor  hath  it,  the  course  of  true  love  ran 
pretty  smooth. 

Wherefore,  our  hero  found  himself  alone,  one 
evening,  smoking  his  cigar  on  the  stern  of  a  steam 
boat,  in  the  broad  expanse  of  Lake  Ponchartrain. 
Far  behind  him  was  the  faint  line  of  the  reedy,  fever- 
haunted  shore  ;  and  the  wake  of  the  steamer,  yellow 
and  blue  with  phosphorescent  flashes,  sparkled  into 
more  creamy  foam  in  the  wave-way  of  the  moon 
light. 

He  was  strangely  happy  that  night ;  so  happy  that 
he  could  not  bear  to  sleep  and  forget  his  happiness. 
And  it  was  lovely,  out  in  the  moonlight,  above  the 
sound  of  the  water.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  June 
— of  course  he  was  thinking  of  Annie  ;  whom  else 
should  he  think  of  ? — and  should  he  sleep,  he  could 
not  be  sure  that  he  should  dream  of  her.  And  some 
thing  in  this  night  reminded  him  of  that  night  he 
remembered  in  Dale,  long  ago.  No,  he  would  not 
go  in.  So  the  silent  shores  went  by  ;  and  the  wilder 
waters  of  Borgne  ;  and  the  moon  rose  and  set,  and 
the  da\vn  came  ;  and  when  they  came  into  Mobile, 
the  sun  rose,  and  found  him  still  sitting  on  the  deck, 
his  eyes  closed,  and  a  pipe  fallen  from  his  lips.  The 
foolish  fellow  should  have  taken  a  fever,  but  that 
there  is  a  special  providence  for  lovers. 

Then  he  risked  his  life  upon  a  decayed  ferry-boat, 
with  red-hot,  rusty  boilers,  resting  on  bricks  upoii 
the  flat  deck,  and  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  sav^ 
where  piled  up  and  walled  in  with  bales  of  cotton. 


262  GUERNDALE. 

Such  of  the  steam  from  these  boilers  as  did  not  es 
cape,  worked  a  reluctant  stern-wheel,  which  urged 
the  craft  up  the  long  bay  to  Tensas.  Here  Guy 
landed,  and  found  a  village — consisting  of  a  wood 
shed  and  a  stump — at  the  end  of  a  railway  track. 
The  stump  formed  the  butt-end,  being  put  there  to 
prevent  trains  from  sliding  into  the  river,  and,  from 
its  appearance,  had  frequently  been  "bunted"  into. 

Alabama.  Endless  dark  forests  of  tangled  growth, 
with  low  glades  and  swamps  and  underbrush  and 
gloomy  recesses,  intertwined  with  long  festoons  of 
Spanish  moss,  now  old  and  brown,  clinging  to  the 
living  trees,  feeding  on  the  fallen  and  dead  ones ; 
then  uplands,  with  an  occasional  farm-house — a  lazy, 
weary  country,  \vith  the  blight  of  poverty  upon  it. 
Mile  after  mile  of  peach-orchard,  now  barren  of 
foliage,  with  trees  stunted  and  small,  though  in 
spring  they  must  have  filled  the  land  writh  fragrance 
and  pink  blossoms.  At  night,  supper  in  a  shed  by 
the  railway,  served  by  a  tall,  dark,  serious  South 
erner,  who  wore  a  broad  hat  of  white  felt,  and  went 
gloomily  around  with  trays  of  fried  bacon  and  corn- 
cakes.  The  only  light  came  from  a  blazing  fire  of 
pitch-pine  knots,  kindled  upon  the  side  of  a  car- 
wheel,  set  high  upon  three  posts.  Then  again,  the 
weary  rumble  of  the  cars,  while  Guy  slept  restlessly 
and  grew  more  impatient  as  they  neared  the  East. 

Georgia.  Still  the  peach-orchards  ;  then  an  oc 
casional  town,  left  desolate  by  the  war ;  and  huge 
sandy  forests  of  pine.  South  Carolina — dank  woods, 
swamps,  with  rice  plantations,  cotton  fields  ;  occa 
sional  openings,  with  old  high  mansions  of  palmetto- 


GUERNDALE.  263 

wood,  falling  in  decay.  Charleston,  the  city  of  a 
lost  cause,  half  burned  and  not  rebuilt,  silent  and 
still,  with  the  grass  growing  in  the  cobble-stones  by 
the  wharves.  And  so  to  sea  ;  and  he  grew  more 
eager,  as  they  crossed  the  blue  ocean  of  the  Gulf 
Stream  ;  then  the  fury  of  an  autumn  gale  off  Hat- 
teras;-at  last  New  York,  and  Guy  found  a  letter 
from  Randolph  : 

"  MY  DEAR  GUY  :  I  am  off  again.  I  wish  once  more  to  study  my 
native  land  from  the  proper  distance,  that  I  may  get  the  perspective 
right.  Moreover,  I  want  to  buy  a  silk  hat  in  London ;  when  I  have 
got  one,  I  may  return.  But  I  do  not  think  I  shall.  My  mother  is  too 
damned  fashionable.  She  is  now  engaged  in  marrying  off  my  sis 
ters  ;  and  I  cannot  breathe  in  her  elevated  social  atmosphere.  Be 
sides,  I  should  be  in  the  way,  and  should  very  likely  punch  the  heads 
ot  the  pretenders.  At  present,  only  two  of  the  latter  have  been  found 
who  will  pass  muster.  One  is  a  wealthy  New  York  lion,  descended 
on  the  one  side  from  King  Solomon  or  David,  and  on  the  other  from 
a  banking-house  in  Flanders.  The  other  is  Sewell  Norton,  the  little 
fool  who  roomed  under  me  at  Cambridge.  He  has  not  so  much 
money,  but  his  great-aunt  married  my  paternal  grandfather,  and  my 
mother's  second  cousin  was  his  grandmother.  So,  you  see,  it  would 
simplify  the  future  ramifications  of  our  family  tree.  He  is  not  treed 
yet,  however  ;  and  my  mother  is  riled  that  I  did  not  snail  Canaster  for 
one  of  the  girls.  A  devil  of  a  way  of  showing  gratitude  to  him  for  his 
kindness  to  me  in  England  !  Worse  than  all,  Mamma  wants  to  marry 
me,  and  has  got  hold  of  some  underbred  creature  in  Newport,  with  a 
mine  in  Nevada.  So  I  escape. 

"  Guy,  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  in  Europe,  and  want  you  to  let 
me  know  when  you  come — -will  you  ?  And  one  thing  more — pardon 
my  ungracious  hint ;  I  know  he  is  a  friend  of  yours  ;  but  unless  you 
can  improve  Symonds,  I  would  not  be  too  thick  with  him.  Good-by. 
The  usual  address,  Boulevard  St.  Germain. 

"N.  R. 

" Club,  December  2,  187-." 

Guy  read  this  letter  somewhat  impatiently ;  and 
then,  crumpling  it  angrily,  he  threw  it  aside.   It  was 


264  GUERNDALE. 

not  like  Randolph  to  seek  to  come  between  him  and 
his  oldest  friend  ;  what  could  he  mean  by  it  ?  For  a 
moment  he  was  almost  offended  with  him.  How 
ever,  he  had  no  time  to  think  of  Randolph  now,  or 
Philip  either,  for  the  earth  burned  beneath  his  foot 
until  he  got  home.  So  Randolph  was  going  wander 
ing  about  the  world  again  ?  Poor,  idle,  unhappy  fel 
low  ;  he  was  greatly  to  be  pitied.  Guy  hurried  to 
take  the  first  train,  and  left  the  letter  unanswered. 
He  must  see  Annie  ;  he  could  not  bear  another  day's 
delay.  He  must  see  her,  before  all  else  ;  before  even 
he  made  his  report  to  his  employers.  If  he  got 
home  by  six,  he  might  call  the  same  evening.  Then 
perhaps  old  Mr.  Bonnymort  might  leave  them  alone, 
as  he  had  done  once  or  twice  before  ;  and  then — and 
then  Guy's  heart  beat  so  fast  that  he  could  not  think 
of  what  would  follow. 

So  Annie,  dear  Annie,  he  thought,  while  the  train 
rolled  rapidly  through  the  clear  winter's  day,  and 
the  bare,  brown  New  England  hills,  with  their  rug 
ged  shoulders,  came  about  him — after  all,  it  was  a 
dear,  rough  old  country,  and  he  envied  not  Randolph 
his  life  abroad.  Now  Dale  was  off  in  that  direction  ; 
well,  he  would  go  there  in  a  day  or  two.  He  won 
dered  how  she  would  greet  him.  How  slow  the 
train  was.  Then  the  sun  set,  and  the  night  gath 
ered  around,  and  he  thought  only  of  Annie — ah,  if 
the  train  should  be  too  late  — and  of  her  only,  when 
at  last  they  got  there,  and  he  drove  rapidly  through 
the  streets.  He  found  his  rooms  empty.  Strang  was 
away  ;  but  he  was  rather  glad  of  this,  so  he  donned 
his  evening  dress,  the  first  time  for  nearly  a  year, 


GUERNDALE.  265 

and  dined  hastily  and  alone.  Seven  o'clock — how 
early  could  he  call  ?  He  decided  that  a  quarter  to 
eight  was  the  earliest  possible  hour,  and  at  half  after 
seven  was  in  the  street.  He  could  not  have  told  why 
he  allowed  fifteen  minutes,  when  the  walk  to  her 
house  took  only  five.  But  there  he  was,  and  he 
could  not  go  in  yet.  The  evening  was  terribly  cold, 
with  little  icy  needles  in  the  air,  so  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  street  to  keep  warm.  At  last,  the  third  or 
fourth  time  he  looked  at  his  watch,  it  was  time  to  go 
in.  He  felt  that  his  voice  was  husky,  and  his  pulses 
throbbed  so  that  it  made  him  almost  giddy  to  go  up 
the  steps  ;  but,  with  a  trembling  hand,  he  pulled  the 
bell. 

"Not  at  home,  to-night,"  said  the  man,  indiffer 
ently. 

It  was  like  a  plunge  into  ice-water.  He  thanked 
the  servant  mechanically,  and  told  him  he  would 
leave  no  card.  Then  a  rush  of  disappointment  came 
over  him.  He  tried  to  laugh  it  off.  How  absurd  ! 
What  difference  did  it  make  whether  it  was  that 
night  or  the  next  ? 

Still  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do.  Phil  was 
away  ;  Strang  was  away  ;  Lane  in  Louisiana,  Ran 
dolph  in  Europe.  Where  could  he  go  ?  There  was 
no  one  he  thought  of  but  Brattle.  Well,  he  could 
not  bear  to  be  alone  that  evening,  and  Brattle  was 
better  than  nobody.  So  he  went  to  Brattle's  house; 
there  was  the  same  endless  smoking  and  drinking 
and  gossip,  Bixby  and  a  few  other  men  playing 
whist.  Bixby  told  a  long  story,  to  which  Guy  did 
not  pay  much  attention.  However,  they  seemed  glad 


266  GUERNDALE. 

to  see  him,  and  he  told  them  about  his  life  in  Ari 
zona,  and  Lane's  gold  mine.  Brattle  seemed  very 
much  taken  with  all  this,  especially  with  the  story  of 
the  discovery  of  gold.  He  wished  he  could  strike 
something  of  the  same  sort.  Gad,  you  couldn't  do 
much  in  that  line  here,  unless  you  get  hold  of  a  rich 
girl,  like  Symonds.  Who  was  Symonds  going  to 
marry  ?  asked  another  man. 

"What  Symonds — not  Phil  ?"  cried  Guy. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course.  He  is  engaged  to  Miss 
Bonnymort.  Haven't  you  heard  ? " 

"No,"  said  Guy,  calmly.  "You  see,  I  have  been 
away  almost  a  year."  And,  after  staying  a  few 
moments  more,  he  went  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  I  am  he  that  was  thy  lord  before  thy  birth  ; 
I  am  he  that  is  thy  lord  till  thou  turn  earth  ; 
I  make  the  night  more  dark,  and  all  the  morrow 
Dark  as  the  night  whose  darkness  was  my  breath  : 
O  fool,  my  name  is  sorrow  ; 
Thou  fool,  my  name  is  death." 

OH,  Phil,  Phil  !  That  Philip  Symonds  could 
have  betrayed  him  ;  of  all  other  men  in  the 
world  but  Philip  ! 

For  betrayal  it  seemed;  Guy  did  not  stop  to  think 
whether  Phil  had  remembered  or  attached  much 
weight  to  his  old  confidence. 

His  oldest  friend,  the  other  member  of  the  old  trio 
in  their  childhood — Philip,  who  had  been,  as  he 
thought,  courage,  and  manliness,  and  frankness  and 
kindness  itself  ;  to  whom  he  had  been  so  loyal,  and 
whom  he  had  thought  so  true. 

Years  before  he  had  told  his  own  hopes  to  his  old 
chum  in  college,  his  schoolmate  and  companion 
Philip  had  come  between  him  and  Annie,  as  he  had 
felt,  with  a  child's  instinct,  that  first  day  when  he  saw 
them  from  the  old  churchyard  in  Dale  ;  and  then  he 
had  thought  only  to  be  a  good  friend ;  to  lead  him 
with  his  careless  laugh  from  that  moody  loneliness 
in  which  he  had  been  sinking  as  a  child;  to  urge 


268  GUERNDALE. 

and  cheer  him  through  the  rough  companionship  of 
school  and  college,  to  win  his  trust  and  love.  And 
then — this. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  lost  Annie.  He  could  bear 
that.  Of  course  he  had  been  wild  and  presumptuous 
and  mad  and  conceited  and  a  fool  to  hope  to  gain 
her  love.  He  might  have  known  that  her  kindness 
was  only  the  warmth  of  friendship,  flowing  to  him, 
unworthy,  from  her  kind  and  gentle  heart  ;  he  might 
have  known  she  was  not  for  him  ;  the  very  fact  of 
her  always  having  known  him  so  well  made  her  see 
his  weakness  and  unworthiness,  and  the  distance 
there  was  between  them.  How  could  he  ever  have 
hoped,  still  less  ventured  to  ask  her  to  link  her 
bright  life  with  his  poor  career  ? 

But  to  have  lost  her  so  ;  to  have  lost  his  dearest 
friend,  all  that  remained  to  him  ;  with  the  loss  of 
her,  to  have  lost  faith  and  friendship.  Ah,  poor, 
absurd,  cynical  Norton  Randolph,  with  his  whimsi 
cal  grim  moods.  Had  there  been  some  method  in 
his  madness  ?  Some  sense  in  his  sermons  ? 

He  was  not  angry  with  Philip  ;  no,  he  could  not 
be  angry  with  him.  It  was  not  the  wrong  to  him 
self  that  rankled  ;  it  was  that  Philip,  his  last  ideal, 
his  first  hero,  should  have  been  like  this  ;  that  Phil 
could  have  been  like  this.  He  felt  that  he  would 
gladly  forgive  the  wrong  if  he  could  have  his  faith 
in  him  restored. 

Ah,  why  had  he  done  it  this  way  ?  Why  had  he  not 
told  him— this  or  anything  ?  Anything,  so  that  Guy 
might  have  saved  his  one  friend  and  his  faith  in  him. 
Now,  all  was  gone  ;  all,  all.  There  was  nothing  left 


GUERNDALE.  269 

him  in  the  world.  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  There 
was  nothing  worthy  in  the  world  save  Annie,  and 
she  was  lost  to  him  forever. 

"  Annie  !"  he  sobbed.  "OGod!"  And  the  young 
strong  man,  with  his  bronzed  face  and  heavy  beard, 
walked  reeling  in  the  road,  repeating  the  woman's 
name  over  and  over  again. 

He  had  been  chiding  for  years  the  folly  of  invest 
ing  our  Deity  with  humzfn  attributes,  and  ascribing 
to  him  pity  and  sorrow  and  revenge.  He  had  indig 
nantly  denied  that  the  Existence,  in  and  for  itself, 
could  go  out  from  itself,  and  stoop  to  change  the 
course  of  its  own  being,  at  the  weak  wailing  prayer 
of  some  suffering  mortal.  He  had  maintained  that 
birtn  and  death  and  sorrow  and  old  age  were  the 
steps  by  which  the  soul  purged  itself  of  itself,  and 
rose  up  into  the  eternal  ;  and  now  what  comfort  in 
this  fine-spun  philosophy  ?  This  calm  philosopher 
cried  to  God  for  aid  and  sympathy  like  a  child.  As  a 
child  he  had  never  so  done  ;  now  first  as  a  man  his 
cold  theories  gave  way,  and  he  cried  out  in  his  sor 
row,  nor  once  remembered  that  he  had  never  so 
cried  before. 

Where  was  he  ?  he  came  to  himself  with  a  start. 
Unwittingly  he  had  wandered  over  the  long  bridge. 

Above  him  was  a  winter  sky,  blue-black,  sown 
thick  with  stars  twinkling  with  coming  wind.  The 
city  lay  behind  him,  across  the  pale  still  river,  painted 
with  many  lights  ;  in  front  of  him  a  row  of  stone 
houses,  straight  and  high,  cast  black  bars  of  shadow 
far  over  the  water.  Here  and  there  a  brighter  light 
marked  some  scene  of  gayety  ;  in  one  house  the 


2/O  GUERNDALE. 

windows  were  ablaze,  and  the  light  came  streaming 
through  the  white  and  red  curtains,  and  a  faint 
sound  of  music  floated  over  the  water.  In  the  back 
of  another  house  near  by,  that  he  well  remembered, 
shone  one  lighted  window.  It  was  her  room,  he 
knew.  His  eyes  were  still  dry,  but  he  leaned  his  hot 
head  upon  his  hands,  and  sobbed  once  upon  the  rail 
ing  of  the  bridge. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  This  must  be  He  who,  legend  saith, 
Comes  sometimes  with  a  kindlier  mien 
And  tolls  a  knell.     This  shape  is  Death — 

So  let  it  be. 

How  strangely  now  I  draw  my  breath  ! 
What  is  this  haze  of  light  I  see  ?  .  .  . 
In  manus  tuas,  Domine  !  " — AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

GUY  was  roused  by  a  dash  of  cold  wind  upon  his 
face.  He  looked  up  and  saw  the  stars  on  the 
northern  horizon  fading  in  blackness  ;  a  gust  came 
sweeping  over  the  river,  with  pricking  darts  of  snow, 
He  rose  and  faced  it  for  a  moment ;  then  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  after  midnight,  and,  with  a  firm 
step,  he  strode  back  to  his  rooms.  They  were  dark, 
cold,  and  lonely  ;  the  fire  on  the  hearth  was  in  ashes, 
and  the  clock  had  stopped.  He  drew  out  his  trunks 
and  began  to  pack — a  gloomy  occupation  at  best. 
At  four  in  the  morning  all  was  done.  Where  was  he 
going  ?  He  did  not  know — he  cared  less.  It  did  not 
seem  to  matter  much  how  he  used  a  broken  life. 
What  should  he  do  ?  What  did  he  wish  ?  He  did 
not  know.  Throwing  himself  on  a  sofa,  he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  They  seemed  icy  cold  as  he 
pressed  them  to  his  head. 

Yes,  he  would  go  to  Dale.     And  so  lying,  he  fell 


2/2  GUERNDALE. 

into  a  dreamless  sleep  ;  and  it  was  morning.  A 
dull  morning,  with  a  steel-gray,  working-day  sky, 
shrouded  in  falling  snow,  which  lay  in  muddy  drifts 
about  the  street.  Outside,  muffled  men  tramped 
laboriously  along,  nerving  themselves  to  work  with 
thoughts  of  home  and  children.  Their  duties  called 
them  down-town.  Guy  had  no  duties,  he  reflected  ; 
and  the  town  was  weary.  Loneliness  he  did  not 
mind ;  for  a  moment  he  felt  thankful  that  all  his 
friends  were  away,  and  he  could  go  off  alone. 

The  servant  entering,  brought  in  his  coffee  and  a 
telegram.  It  was  from  a  doctor  in  Dale,  saying  that 
his  mother  was  very  ill.  He  sent  fora  carriage,  and 
loading  it  with  all  his  trunks,  drove  to  the  sta 
tion.  Stopping  at  a  florist's,  he  got  a  basket  of  red 
roses  and  sent  them  to  Annie  without  a  card.  She 
was  probably  sitting  in  her  warm  morning-room 
then  —  he  wondered  whom  she  was  thinking  of. 
Probably  of  Philip.  Ah,  how  could  Phil -have  de 
ceived  him  ?  Had  he  really  meant  to  do  so  ?  And 
Guy  tried  hard  to  imagine  himself  in  his  place,  and 
to  make  excuses  for  him.  Strangely  enough,  he 
thought  more  of  him  than  of  Annie,  as  the  train 
trundled  on  over  the  muffled  rails.  It  was  storming 
heavily,  and  the  jangle  of  the  wheels  was  dulled  in  a 
cushion  of  snow. 

The  train  was  nearly  empty.  It  had  come  into  the 
city  with  its  morning  freight  of  men  and  school-chil 
dren,  and  the  cars  were  hot  and  close,  and  the  air 
was  sour.  The  smoking-car  was  worse  :  foul  with 
tobacco  smoke,  like  an  echo  of  profanity.  He  went 
back  and  took  a  seat.  In  front  of  him  were  two 


GUERNDALE.  273 

thin,  sallow-necked  women  ;  a  tawdrily  dressed  girl 
and  a  commercial  traveller  were  the  only  other  occu 
pants.  It  was  less  cheerless  to  look  outside,  where 
the  snow  fell  thick  through  the  dark  green  forests 
and  the  empty  wooden  villages.  Evidently  the  taw 
drily  dressed  girl  was  seeking  to  win  the  attention 
of  the  commercial  traveller,  and  after  the  first  stop 
they  came  back  and  sat  together,  eating  cream- 
cakes. 

His  feet  and  hands  were  cold  ;  he  had  forgotten 
his  gloves,  and  his  fingers  were  grimed  with  dust 
and  cinders.  The  atmosphere  of  the  car  became  in 
tolerable.  He  went  out,  and,  unmolested  by  the 
brakeman,  sat  upon  the  rear  platform  and  watched 
the  storm.  The  feathery  snow-flakes  danced  after 
him  in  the  wake  of  the  train,  and  their  cool  touch  on 
his  face  gave  him  a  faint  sensation  of  relief.  He 
drew  the  old  diamond  out  of  his  locket  and  looked 
at  it  long  and  earnestly.  Should  he  throw  it  away ! 
and  see  if  better  days  would  come  ?  It  seemed  paler 
than  ever  in  the  dull  light.  Should  he  fling  it  in  the 
fast-gathering  drifts  ?  He  could  not  attach  much 
weight  to  the  old  story  now.  Life  was  dull  and  pur 
poseless  enough.  It  was  time  for  him  to  give  up 
romance — even  the  romance  of  sadness. 

He  went  back  into  the  car.  The  girl  was  talking 
in  a  high,  flat  key,  telling  her  companion  that  he  was 
"horrid."  From  this  and  other  remarks,  Guy  in 
ferred  that  the  man  had  kissed  her. 

Hours  went  by  ;  and  the  same  great  stretch  of 
barren  country  loomed  through  the  windows  ;  and 
Guy  looked  at  the  diamond  which  now  could  never 

12* 


274  GUERNDALE. 

be  hers.  Then  he  smiled  a  little  contemptuously,  and 
put  the  diamond  back  in  its  case. 

No,  he  would  not  give  it  up.  After  all,  there  was 
some  virtue  in  courage.  Perhaps  it  was  worth  while 
being  brave.  Such  as  it  was,  he  would  live  his  life 
out,  as  he  had  laid  it  out  for  himself,  fifteen  years 
before.  If  there  was  no  happiness,  there  should  be 
no  sorrow.  Only  a  dull  emptiness  of  both.  There 
should  be  no  more  dreaming. 

What  was  real  ?  These  people  about  him.  He 
looked  around  and  felt  a  positive  hate  for  them  all. 
What  was  real  to  the  man  ?  To  sell  such  goods  as 
he  had,  for  such  prices  as  he  could  get.  He  was 
better  off,  after  all,  than  Guy  himself  ;  for  Guy  did 
not  value  the  price,  and  had  no  goods  to  sell  if  he 
did.  The  reward  he  sought  was  not  exchangeable 
for  goods.  Did  high  and  pure  and  lovable  things 
really  exist  ?  He  supposed  they  did.  Some  people 
must  have  found  them,  they  were  written  about  so 
much.  But  La  Rochefoucauld  said  people  wrote 
much  about  ghosts,  and  for  that  very  reason — that 
no  one  had  ever  seen  them.  He  would  take  Ran 
dolph's  advice,  and  not  look  for  the  birds  of  this 
year  in  the  nests  of  the  last.  Bah  !  what  a  fool  he 
was  to  think  so  much.  There  was  that  girl  opposite — 
a  ribbon  and  a  cream-cake  and  the  coarse  admiration 
of  a  man  satisfied  her.  And  she  would  marry  and 
propagate  others  of  her  kind. 

Well,  since  gold  was  all,  he  could  get  gold.  Doing 
good  was  a  conventional  phrase,  and  meant  nothing. 
Or,  at  most,  it  meant  giving  to  others  the  gold  that 
one  despised  one's  self,  because  others  could  be  con- 


GUERNDALE.  2/5 

tent  with  it  and  the  sensual  comfort  it  brought. 
True,  one  might  relieve  positive  pain,  vulgar  want ; 
but  what  a  half-measure  was  this  !  At  the  best  only 
a  palliative.  To  be  a  clergyman,  for  instance — that 
was  romanticism  of  a  sort  ;  but  how  could  he  do 
that  ?  Romanticism  was  done  with  him.  All  men 
were  either  unhappy  or  contemptible.  All  he  could 
do  as  a  father-confessor  would  be  to  advise  the  un 
happy  people  to  kill  themselves,  and  for  people  who 
pretended  to  be  happy  he  had  no  sympathy — rather 
contempt.  True,  he  himself  meant  to  go  through  with 
it  ,".11,  but  it  \vas  not  a  course  he  could  honestly  rec 
ommend  to  others,  especially  such  others  as  suf 
fered  from  the  positive  wretchedness  of  want  and 
squalor. 

Yes,  he  meant  to  go  through  with  it  all.  Dissipa 
tion  was  simply  repulsive  to  him  ;  vice  was  foul  and 
unendurable.  Besides  it  was  wrong  and  cowardly  to 
seek  distraction  from  a  noble  sorrow,  that  he  might 
not  feel  it  quite  so  much.  He  would  ride  straight, 
whatever  happened.  And  so,  with  still,  empty  eyes 
and  compressed  lips,  he  alighted  at  Dale. 

He  found  his  mother  delirious,  and  the  one  old 
servant  moping,  drinking  tea  in  a  corner.  For  five 
weeks  he  was  with  her,  watching  her  by  night  and 
sleeping  in  the  morning.  Only  in  the  long  after 
noons  did  he  get  out  and  wander  through  the  wet, 
brown  woods.  Most  of  the  old  nooks  he  had  known 
were  hidden  in  snow,  or  bare  and  unlovely  with 
rotting  leaves.  The  Bonnymort  house  was  closed 
and  boarded  up,  and  he  passed  long  hours  wander 
ing  through  the  shrubbery  about  it.  He  never 


2/6  GUERNDALE. 

went  to  church,  and  rarely  to  the  village,  and  heard 
through  the  servant  of  ill-natured  comments  of  the 
neighbors,  which  mattered  little  to  him. 

One  afternoon  he  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  brook 
behind  the  house,  like  a  faint  voice  of  spring,  and 
followed  it  up  as  he  used  to  do  years  before,  to  the 
little  basin  where  he  had  first  met  her.  In  the  shade 
was  a  gray  shelf  of  ice,  but  near  the  rock  was  a  few 
feet  of  open  water,  and  through  its  black  surface  he 
saw  the  soft,  green  mosses  waving,  as  if  beneath 
the  brook  it  were  still  summer  ;  and,  as  any  country 
school-boy  might  do,  he  took  his  penknife  and  cut 
with  labor  her  initials  and  his.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
must  leave  some  record  of  his  love  before  it  was 
buried  forever.  "  She  will  never  see  it,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  went  home. 

That  evening  he  found  a  letter  from  Annie — a 
sweet,  kind  letter,  sympathizing  with  him  in  his 
mother's  illness,  and  telling  him  how  much  she  felt 
for  him,  even  in  her  present  happiness.  Each  kind 
word  was  a  stab  to  him  ;  but  he  read  it  through,  and 
putting  it  down,  thanked  Heaven  that  she  at  least 
was  left  to  him,  and  prayed  that  Philip,  false  to 
him,  might  be  true  to  her.  In  the  night  his  mother 
opened  her  eyes  and  spoke  "  Guy." 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Guy,  dear — are  you  here  ? " 
'Yes,  mother." 
'Forgive  me,  dear." 

Guy  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"  Have  you  got  the  stone  I  gave  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother." 


GUERNDALE. 

"  Are  you  happy  ?  " 

"No,  mother." 

"  Neither  was  your  father." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  when  Guy  looked 
at  her  again  her  face  was  no  longer  so  ashy  pale  as 
it  had  been.  It  even  seemed  that  a  faint  flush  was 
upon  her  cheek  ;  and  looking  at  her  face  more  close 
ly,  he  saw  that  she  was  dead. 

The  funeral  was  quiet,  but  in  deference  to  custom 
the  house  was  thrown  open,  and  the  neighbors  came 
in  rrsty  black  dresses,  and  talked  in  half  whispers, 
sitting  upright  upon  horse-hair  chairs  until  the  min 
ister,  in  a  halting,  constrained  way,  made  a  long 
prayer.  At  the  grave  Guy  wished  a  part  of  the  ser 
vice  of  the  English  church,  but  the  minister  objected 
to  set  prayers.  Still,  Guy  took  an  old  prayer-book 
with  him  ;  and,  turning  the  leaves  noticed  the  book 
plate  and  coat-of-arms,  "  Godfrey  Guerndale — 1743," 
with  the  motto,  "  Seule  la  mort  pent  nous  vaincre." 

He  left  the  old  servant  to  live  in  the  house,  and 
went  away  from  Dale. 


Jourtlj. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Chiafipino. — It  seems  you  never  loved  me,  then  ? 

JLulalia. —  Chiappino  ! 

Ch.—  Never? 

Eu, —  Never. 

Ch, —  That's  sad — say  what  I  might 

There  was  no  helping  being  sure  this  while 
You  loved  me— love  like  mine  must  have  return, 
I  thought — no  river  starts  but  to  some  sea  ; 
If  I  knew  any  heart,  as  mine  loved  you, 
Loved  me,  tho'  in  the  vilest  breast  'twere  lodged, 
I  should,  I  think,  be  forced  to  love  again — 
Else  there's  no  right  nor  reason  in  the  world  ! 

— R.  BROWNING. 

GUY  thought  often  of  Norton  Randolph  these 
dark  times.  He  had  trusted  Philip  ;  he  had 
half  distrusted  Norton.  But  now  he  felt  himself 
more  akin  to  him  than  ever.  Something  about  his 
calm  reserve  of  belief,  his  flippancy,  or  what  was 
superficially  flippant,  seemed  natural  to  him.  .  .  . 
After  all,  nothing  too  much  was  the  motto.  Serious 
things  were  always  half  ridiculous;  there  was  nothing 
more  foolish  than  to  take  the  world  au  grand  sericux. 
Everything  was  half  good,  half  bad  ;  half  true,  half 
false  ;  half  worthy.  Life  was  a  compromise  ;  the 
times  of  reality  were  olden  and  gone  ;  it  was  a  world 


GUERNDALE.  2/9 

of  if,  but,  and  perhaps.  .  .  .  Bah  !  What  was  the  use 
of  thinking  about  it  ?  He  had  lived  too  much  in 
wild  country,  among  animals  and  plants.  Nature 
was  frank,  but  mankind  was  not.  .  .  .  There  was 
only  Annie  in  the  world,  and  of  her  he  might  never 
think  ;  yet  even  then  her  memory  seemed  to  make 
things  plainer  for  him.  .  .  .  He  would  live  it 
through;  he  would  go  on  as  he  had  planned.  Cour 
age — gayety  and  courage — was  the  manly  part. 
Norton  was  right  in  taking  life  with  a  smile. 

And  so  Philip  was  lost  to  him,  and  Annie,  too.  If 
,  she  were  only  happy  he  could  bear  it.  But  if  it 
might  have  happened  in  any  other  way  than  this  ! 

If  only  people  were  frank,  it  seemed  that  one 
could  pardon  them  everything  else.  He  could  not 
bear  to  lose  Philip.  Philip  had  been  all  in  all  to 
him ;  he  had  embodied  the  broad,  real  life,  the 
strong  stir  of  blood  and  animal  spirits,  for  which  he 
had  left  his  shrinking  childhood.  Was  his  old  idol 
really  shattered  ?  Perhaps  he  had  never  really 
known  ;  perhaps  he  had  forgotten. 

These  thoughts  came  to  Guy  while  at  breakfast  in 
a  New  York  hotel.  Then  the  door  opened  behind 
him,  and  he  heard  a  strong,  well-remembered  voice. 

"  Why,  Guy,  old  man,  I  have  found  you  at  last. 
Where  the  deuce  have  you  been  keeping  yourself  ? 

I  heard  of  your  mother's  death "  And  Philip 

was  in  front  of  him,  holding  out  his  broad,  brown 
hand. 

Guy  started  up  for  a  moment  ;  and  then  sank  back 
in  his  chair.  Phil's  face  was  redder  than  usual,  and 
there  was  a  forced  bonhommie,  almost  a  swagger,  in 


280  GUERNDALE. 

his  manner.  His  eyes  met  Guy's  only  once,  and  then 
but  for  an  instant.  Guy  drew  back  his  hand. 

"  Philip,  have  you  forgotten  what  I  told  you  two 
years  ago  ? " 

Phil  hesitated  a  moment.  "Why,  what "  he 

began.  Then  again  his  glance  met  Guy's,  and  he 
changed  his  mind.  "  Come,  come,  Guy,  don't  be  a 
fool.  I  thought  that  old  moonshine  of  yours  was 
over,  years  ago." 

"  You  knew  it  was  not,"  said  Guy,  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  might,  at  least,  have  told  me." 

Again  Phil  hesitated;  then,  as  if  in  a  burst  of  irri 
tation,  "  Good  God,  man,  what  are  you  mad  about  ? 
I  cannot  imagine." 

"It  is  just  because  you  cannot  imagine," said  Guy 
gloomily. 

Phil  walked  to  the  window,  and  there  was  a  mo 
ment's  silence.  He  came  back  and  took  a  chair 
next  Guy's.  "  Come,  old  fellow,  give  me  your  hand, 
and  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Don't  be  so  damned 
cranky.  Even  if  I  did  know,  all's  fair  in  love  and 
war,  you  know.  Hang  it,  man,  don't  be  a  fool. 
There  are  plenty  other  girls  in  the  world  as  good 
as  Annie  Bonnymort — 

"  Please  don't  mention  her  name  here,"  said  Guy 
gloomily. 

"Why,  —  -your  cheek,"  cried  Philip,  with 

an  oath.  "I'll  mention  her  name  when  and  where 
I  like.  Who  has  a  right  to  do  so,  if  I  have  not  ? " 
Philip  forced  his  voice  to  a  cry  of  indignation  as  he 
ended  ;  then  rose,  and  strode  angrily  across  the 
room.  Guy  was  silent. 


GUERNDALE.  28 1 

"  Come,  come,  old  fellow,  don't  let  us  go  off  in 
this  way,"  Philip  said,  as  he  came  back.  "  Where 
are  you  going  to  ? " 

"  Freiberg." 

"  Well,  brace  up,  and  take  something  to  drink  with 

me.  There's  a  good  fellow,  and  don't  be  angry 

thank  God  you  aren't  hooked." 

"You  really  must  pardon  me,"  Guy  broke  in.  "I 
must  go  down-town — I  have  an  engagement."  And 
Guy  rose  and  left  the  room,  not  once  looking  back. 

It  is  pleasant  for  none  of  us  to  lose  the  approval 
of  one  who  has  always  loved  and  admired  us.  Phil 
was  careless  in  most  things,  but  it  sobered  even  him 
for  a  moment.  He  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
soda,  and  drank  it  savagely.  "  Good  Lord,  who 
would  have  thought  the  poor  devil  would  have  been 
so  cut  up  ? " 

Philip  was  furious.  Any  one  who  could  have  seen 
his  expression  then,  would  have  wondered  at  his 
popularity.  His  heavy  features  were  not  so  pleasant 
to  look  at  when  his  good-nature  was  gone.  Grad 
ually,  however,  the  stimulant  restored  his  self-esteem  ; 
and  he  rose,  content  with  himself  and  his  actions. 
"Anyhow,  I  tried  to  be  friendly  with  him,"  he  mut 
tered,  with  a  shrug.  "  It  is  not  my  fault." 

Good-natured  Phil  never  thought  it  was  his  fault, 
whatever  happened  ;  and  the  world  was  only  too  apt 
to  encourage  him  in  this  opinion.  He  was  such  a 
good-hearted  fellow. 

So  they  parted— Philip  pettishly,  Guy  sadly.  He 
could  not  piece  and  patch  his  old  friend  together  to 
make  him  whole  again.  That  day  he  busied  himself 


282  GUERNDALE. 

about  his  departure,  and  in  twelve  hours  the  hills  of 
Neversink  were  fading  in  the  western  light. 

The  steamer  rolling  heavily,  all  the  other  passen 
gers  had  gone  below,  and  Guy  was  leaning  on  the 
bulwark,  over  the  gray  waves.  He  had  always  meant 
to  write  once  to  Annie,  but  had  given  it  up.  "  So," 
he  whispered,  "she  will  never  know.  It  is  better 
so.  She  will  never  know — never  know " 

He  bent  over  the  stern  and  looked  at  the  yeasty 
wake  and  listened  to  the  murmur  of  the  troubled 
sea.  His  head  sank,  wearily,  for  a  minute  ;  then  he 
rose  and  paced  the  deck.  In  all  his  life  he  would 
never,  voluntarily,  think  of  her  again.  In  that  mo 
ment  he  had  buried  his  love  for  her ;  and  perhaps, 
in  all  his  life,  he  had  never  loved  her  so  much. 

And  so,  she  would  never  know. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

"Through  many  a  night  toward  many  a  wearier  day 

His  spirit  bore  his  body  down  its  way. 
Through  many  a  day  to  many  a  wearier  night 

His  soul  sustained  his  sorrows  in  her  sight. 
And  earth  was  bitter,  and  heaven,  and  even  the  sea 

Sorrowful  even  as  he." — SWINBURNE. 

TWO  weeks  at  sea,  and  a  stormy  voyage.  Scarce 
one  day  of  sunshine  ;  at  most  a  passing  gleam 
between  the  billows  of  white  cloud  blurred  upon  a 
watery  sky.  The  ocean  was  angry  ;  now  slate-color, 
now  olive-green.  At  night  the  clouds  were  blown 
away,  and  left  cold  spaces  in  the  zenith,  where  the 
stars  would  come  out  and  blink  and  tremble  in  the 
storm.  The  wind  kept  always  in  the  northwest,  and 
moved  long,  steady  waves,  with  gray  jowls,  which 
opened  and  showed  white  teeth  of  foam. 

There  were  many  passengers,  mostly  Jews  and 
Manchester  salesmen  ;  one  inexplicable  lady  ;  some 
rich  Americans  with  their  families,  making  the  grand 
tour  ;  a  couple  of  young  students.  Guy  walked  rather 
dreamily  among  them  all.  By  day  he  usually  lay  in  a 
rug  on  the  deck  and  read  or  dozed,  while  the  young 
feminine  portion  of  the  ship's  company  paced  up  and 
down,  arm-in-arm  with  the  more  presentable  of  the 
male  travellers,  and  scanned  curiously  his  brown, 


284  GUERNDALE. 

quiet  face,  as  he  lay  asleep.  The  mass  of  the  male 
persuasion  stayed  in  the  smoking-room,  betting,  tell 
ing  stories,  drinking,  and  making  the  place  foul. 
The  younger  men  vied  with  each  other  in  talking  of 
their  exploits  and  displaying  their  knowledge  of  life. 
Most  prominent  among  them  was  a  man  of  forty  or 
thereabouts,  with  a  fat  neck  and  three  days'  growth 
of  black  beard  ;  they  all  hung  upon  his  words,  and 
were  happy  to  pay  for  his  drinks.  On  the  second 
day  out  he  brought  up  a  poker  table,  and  was  busy 
with  organizing  pools  on  the  ship's  run.  Guy  fan 
cied  he  was  a  professional  gambler.  Guy  rather 
avoided  the  smoking-room  or  "fiddler;"  but  at 
night  he  left  the  cabins,  and  the  red  eye  of  his  cigar 
would  gleam  in  the  darkness,  as  he  walked  the  decks 
from  stern  to  forecastle. 

At  last,  one  evening,  they  sighted  the  rocky  bones 
of  Cornwall.  Guy  kept  out-of-doors,  and  at  four  in 
the  morning  he  saw  the  sunlight  come  over  the  green 
Devonshire  uplands.  Then  the  coast  receded,  and  was 
nothing  but  a  hazy,  blue  wall  ;  until  evening,  when 
they  passed  the  chalk  points  of  the  Needles,  and  cast 
anchor  in  Southampton  water.  He  remembered  that 
he  was  probably  the  first  of  his  family  to  return  to 
England  since  old  Guyon.  But  he  did  not  go  ashore, 
contenting  himself  with  looking  at  it.  It  had  been  a 
favorite  idea  of  his  to  return,  when  he  should  be  mar 
ried,  and  look  for  the  old  manor  in  Durham,  or  what 
might  be  left  of  it.  He  might  at  least  hope  to  find 
some  old  brasses  of  the  Guerndales  in  the  chapel  or 
church.  He  wondered  who  guarded  it  now.  Per 
haps  no  one  ;  the  Devil  was  probably  not  so  keen 


GUERNDALE.  285 

after  good  old  St.  Cuthbert's  bones  as  in  days  of 
yore.  He  now  knew  that  the  Church  had  attached 
a  false  value  to  such  antiquities. 

That  afternoon  they  went  down  the  Solent ;  by 
Cowes  and  Ryde,  with  their  pleasure  fleets  of  yachts  ; 
into  the  Channel  at  night,  and  on  the  next  day  the 
petty  ground-swell  of  the  German  Ocean,  with  a  few 
spars  or  spires  stuck  endwise  on  the  horizon  line,  to 
stand  for  Flanders.  .  .  .  He  wished  he  had  asked 
Annie  to  write  to  him.  She  would  not  have  thought 
it  strange.  .  .  .  Yet  \vhy  ? 

E/emerhafen,  and  land,  the  next  morning.  A 
quaint  little  brick  town,  with  brick  houses  and  pave 
ments,  and  tarpaulin-hatted  children,  red  and  rosy 
with  frequent  scrubbing.  The  children  disposed  of 
and  safely  off  for  school,  the  entire  female  population 
turned  to  and  scrubbed  the  pavements.  Domestic 
interiors,  with  the  hausfrau  in  the  court-yard  scrub 
bing,  and  the  herr  in  the  doorway  smoking.  Visions 
of  a  life  of  comfort,  going  to  the  market,  eider-down 
— bilrgerlich,  to  a  degree,  Randolph  would  say.  Did 
Randolph  himself  never  yearn  for  a  domestic  inte 
rior  ? 

A  shrill  whistle  from  the  station  round  the  corner. 
Only  one  first-class  carriage  in  the  train,  which  all 
the  American  tourists  squabbled  for.  Himself  in  the 
second-class  coupe,  with  the  lady  of  the  voyage, 
dressed  in  black  and  a  veil.  American-like,  he  re 
frained  from  speaking  to  her  ;  Americans,  contrary 
to  the  prevailing  impression,  being  the  most  reserved 
people  in  the  world.  Out  the  window  a  comfortable, 
farm-yard  sort  of  country  ;  evidences  of  plenty  of 


286  GUERNDALE. 

rain,  and  lack  of  water-courses.  Easy,  squatting 
farm-houses,  with  low,  white-washed  walls,  and  huge 
projecting  straw  roofs,  looking  like  mushrooms.  A 
clatter  of  ducks  and  geese,  birds  and  bees,  in  the 
garden.  As  the  train  went  by  the  little  brick  sta 
tion,  with  its  name  grown  in  flowrers  beside  it,  a  uni 
formed  station-master  popped  out  and  presented 
arms — apparently  with  a  broomstick — while  his  has 
tily  dropped  pipe  lay,  still  smoking,  on  the  pave 
ment.  A  shriek,  longer  than  usual  ;  a  tunnel ; 
Bremen. 

More  country,  still  flat,  and  very  green  and  yellow, 
like  a  colored  lithograph.  He  took  a  book  and  tried 
to  read,  but,  despite  himself,  his  eye  wandered  to  the 
window  and  the  perspective  of  hedge-rows,  widening 
and  closing,  as  the  train  rushed  by.  Hanover  ;  then, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  an  old  city,  fortified  within 
high  walls,  Magdeburg  ;  a  great  Protestant  strong 
hold  in  the  days  when  men  fought  for  their  faiths. 
The  railway-carriages  and  freight-cars,  painted  green, 
were  all  numbered — "3  horses — 36  men,"  "  12  horses 
— 60  men,"  and  so  on.  He  wondered  why  ;  then  he 
saw  that  they  were  all  requisitioned  and  apportioned 
for  case  of  war.  The  thought  struck  him  oddly,  and 
caused  him  a  vague  wonder  that  there  wras  anything 
left  to  fight  about.  But,  he  reflected,  the  rank  and 
file  did  not  care  what  they  fought  about. 

Blobs  of  water  came  on  the  window,  through  which 
the  landscape  looked  distorted  and  plum-puddingy. 
They  still  had  the  coupe  to  themselves — himself  and 
the  lady  in  black.  He  noticed  once  that  she  had 
large,  dark  eyes  ;  and  late  in  the  twilight,  when 


GUERNDALE.      .  287 

she  thought  he  was  asleep,  he  saw  her  put  her  hand 
kerchief  to  them.  Suddenly  he  felt  the  tears  in  his 
own  eyes  ;  and,  with  a  start  of  surprise  and  impa 
tience,  sat  upright.  At  the  next  station  he  got  out 
and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  rain,  stamping  his 
feet  and  swinging  his  arms  as  if  to  restore  the  cir 
culation.  At  last  they  got  to  Leipsic,  and  he  fell 
asleep. 

He  was  roused  at  two  or  thereabouts,  when  they 
came  to  the  Elbe  ;  and  he  found  that  the  bridge  over 
the  river  had  been  carried  away,  and  it  was  neces- 
sar)  to  be  ferried  over.  The  little  steamer  had  to 
make  two  trips  ;  half  the  passengers  shivered  and 
swore  on  one  side  of  the  river,  while  the  first  load 
went  over  ;  then  the  first  load  swore  and  shivered 
on  that  side  of  the  river,  while  the  second  load  went 
over.  The  weather  was  a  gloomy  drizzle  ;  and  the 
great  stone  piers  of  the  broken  bridge  looked  gaunt 
and  high  in  the  mist.  Then  another  long  ride,  half 
unconscious,  and  a  bright  flare  of  gas.  Dresden. 

Would  der  Herr  have  a  bed  ?  It  was  then  sunrise  ; 
and  the  first  train  for  Freiberg  left  at  seven.  No ; 
he  would  take  coffee  and  a  cigar  in  the  terrace  over 
the  river.  The  waiter  was  horrified  ;  it  was  impos 
sible  ;  but  Guy  had  his  way.  So  he  sat  there,  liking 
to  see  the  sunlight  break  into  the  city  and  up  the 
narrow  streets,  and  to  watch  the  market-place  take 
life,  and  the  long  bridge,  and  the  swift,  brown  river. 
Then  back  to  the  station  and  Freiberg ;  and  there, 
in  the  high  morning,  Guy  took  a  room  at  the  hotel, 
and  fell  asleep. 

In  the  afternoon  he'got  up  and  took  a  walk  about 


288  GUERNDALE. 

the  town.  It  did  not  seem  to  be  much  of  a  place. 
He  had  come  here  because  he  had  heard  of  the 
School  of  Mines  ;  and  supposed,  lazily,  he  ought  to 
go  and  have  a  look  at  it.  He  remembered,  with  a 
smile,  Norton  Randolph's  story  of  how  he  had  gone 
to  Heidelberg.  He  had  arrived  at  Mayence  with  a 
general  impression  that  there  were  universities  in 
Germany  ;  and,  ringing  the  bell,  had  asked  the  waiter 
the  way  to  the  nearest  one.  He  wondered  where 
Norton  was  now. 

Freiberg.  Well,  he  was  here,  and  settled  for  two 
or  three  years.  What  should  he  do  ?  He  had  walked 
all  over  the  town  in  a  couple  of  hours.  Should  he 
go  up  and  have  his  name  entered  on  the  books,  if 
that  was  the  proper  thing  to  do  ?  He  supposed 
there  was  a  dean,  or  somebody  who  kept  books. 
Meanwhile,  he  threw  himself  upon  a  bench  in  the 
promenade  above  the  town,  and  smoked  cigarettes. 
The  town  looked  hot  and  stupid  ;  the  streets  were 
deserted  ;  below  him  was  a  sentry,  walking  to  and 
fro  monotonously.  A  sudden  weariness  came  over 
him.  He  was  tired — tired  of  seeing  so  many  cities 
and  towns,  and  resting  in  none  of  them  ;  but  he 
could  not  rest.  Now  he  had  been  here  six  hours, 
three  and  a  half  of  which  he  had  slept ;  and  he  was 
tired  of  this  place.  He  did  not  like  it.  The  coun 
try  was  flatter  than  he  had  supposed.  Ah  well,  he 
would  go  to  Zurich  and  try  that.  The  school  might 
do  as  well,  at  first,  as  a  more  special  school.  And 
he  could  learn  German,  which  was,  of  course,  nec 
essary,  as  well  there  as  at  Freiberg. 

Back  to  Dresden,  late  in  the  evening,  again  to  the 


GUERNDALE.  289 

astonishment  of  the  sleepy  waiter,  who  regarded  him 
as  an  uncanny  guest,  with  ghoulish  and  unnatural 
habits,  who  slept  not  at  night,  but  smoked  and  drank 
strong  coffee.  This  time,  however,  he  went  to  bed ; 
and,  in  the  consciousness  of  being  off  for  Zurich  the 
next  day,  slept  long  and  peacefully.  Toward  the 
morning,  he  had  a  dream  of  the  woman  in  black  in 
the  train. 

'3 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

"Am  Grabe  der  Liebe  wachst  Bliimlein  der  Ruh'."— HEINE. 

EARLY  in  the  next  day,  Guy  started  for  Zurich. 
No  sooner  was  he  fairly  off  in  the  train  than 
he  distinctly  regretted  that  he  had  not  stopped  at 
Freiberg.  After  all,  what  difference  did  it  make  to 
him  where  he  studied  ?  That  day  he  went  through 
Bavaria,  presumably ;  but  Guy  never  remembered 
anything  of  his  travels  in  that  country.  He  was 
quite  certain  that  he  came  to  a  place  on  the  Lake  of 
Constance  ;  subsequent  biographers  have  identified 
it  with  Friedrichshafen  ;  whether  rightly  or  not,  I  do 
not  know.  At  all  events,  the  lake  was  there,  a  very 
faint  and  clear  blue,  with  a  bluer  rim  around  the 
shore,  and  high,  dreamy  forms  of  cream-color  and 
white  on  the  southern  horizon.  This  Guy  noticed 
and  remembered  ;  but  he  cared  little  in  those  days 
for  beauty  of  landscape.  The  greatest  beauty  brought 
only  the  more  sadness  into  his  moods,  as  it  seemed 
to  him. 

At  Zurich  he  found  the  semester  was  over,  and  the 
next  was  not  to  begin  until  August.  There  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  then,  at  all  events.  What  was 
he  to  do  ?  He  supposed  that  he  might  as  well  travel 
for  a  few  weeks  more.  So  he  went  on  to  Lucerne. 


GUERNDALE.  291 

As  Guy's  reminiscences  of  that  charming  little 
city  began  and  ended  with  Thorwaldsen's  lion,  he  is 
supposed  to  have  spent  most  of  his  visit  there  in 
contemplation  of  this  work  of  art.  He  did  remem 
ber,  however,  that  one  evening  found  him  lying  on 
his  oars  in  a  boat  upon  the  lake,  and  a  great  impa 
tience  of  all  things  was  upon  him. 

He  had  been  trying  never  to  allow  himself  to 
think  ;  and  he  had  driven  himself  on,  over  the  earth, 
xirging  his  mind  away  from  all  thoughts  that  to  most 
men  are  dear.  For,  he  had  reasoned,  what  was  there 
better  for  him  ?  Why  should  he,  now,  be  any  more 
alone  in  a  strange  land  than  in  his  own  ?  What  was 
there  left  to  him  in  his  own  land,  that  he  had  not 
here  ?  He  had  but  himself  ;  he  was  seeking  to  make, 
for  himself,  what  he  could,  of  himself.  That  must 
content  him. 

Yet,  he  had  left  nothing  behind  him,  and  he 
had  left  everything  ;  he  had  brought  nothing  with 
him,  and  he  had  brought  everything.  He  was  im 
patient  of  it  all,  and  impatient  with  himself  for  being 
impatient.  He  seized  the  oars,  and  drove  them 
vigorously  through  the  water  for  a  score  of  strokes  ; 
then  they  fell  once  more  from  his  hands,  and  the 
boat  drifted.  The  purple  shadows  crept  out  from 
the  land  and  folded  it  from  him  ;  the  white,  gleam 
ing  waters  deepened  to  color  of  lead.  A  trivial 
tinkle  of  music  came  from  a  pavilion  on  the  shore, 
and  from  a  boat  near  by  the  chorus  of  some  song 
from  an  opera-bouffe. 

Again,  he  grasped  the  oars  and  pulled  back  to  the 
town.  He  landed,  and  wandered  about  the  streets, 


2Q2  GUERNDALE. 

which  were  crowded  with  summer  excursionists, 
vulgar  Englishmen  and  unpleasant  Americans  ;  the 
latter  walking,  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  in 
the  gardens  by  the  Kursaal,  or  sitting  at  tables  and 
taking  ices  or  other  refreshments.  Two  or  three 
young  American  girls  were  there,  overdressed  ;  near 
them  two  French  cocottes,  also  overdressed  ;  one  or 
two  men  following,  and  ogling  both  groups  equally. 
Two  fat  men,  with  broad,  cloth  hats,  low  vests,  and 
diamond  shirt-pins,  sitting  and  discussing  the  Chi 
cago  pork-market ;  probably  the  fathers  of  the  girls, 
Guy  thought.  One  gentleman,  sitting  alone  and 
smoking  cynically.  Guy  started,  as  his  eye  fell 
upon  him  ;  then  he  went  behind  some  trees,  and 
walked  rapidly  away.  It  was  Norton  Randolph. 
Why  Guy  avoided  him,  he  could  not  have  told  ;  but 
he  felt  an  odd  repugnance  to  meeting  him,  which  he 
afterward  regretted. 

After  walking  along  the  quay  a  moment,  he  turned 
and  went  back  for  Norton  ;  but  he  was  gone.  Well, 
it  did  not  matter.  He  knew  his  address  and  could 
write  to  him,  even  if  he  did  not  find  him  in  Lucerne. 
His  impatience  came  upon  him  once  more.  Oh,  he 
could  not  bear  this.  He  must  get  away  again — 
alone,  by  himself,  away  from  this  common,  comfort 
able  crowd.  Taken  en  masse,  he  seemed  to  hate  his 
fellow-creatures.  He  must  leave  cities,  for  a  time ; 
it  did  not  matter  much  where  he  went.  So  he 
packed  up  hastily  that  night;  and  leaving  his  trunks, 
started  the  next  morning  with  a  knapsack  and  a 
stick  to  "have  it  out  with  himself." 

He   went  up   the  lake  in    a  small   steamer,   and 


GUERNDALE.  293 

ashore  at  Altdorf.  The  higher  snow  mountains  had 
a  strange  charm  for  him  as  he  studied  them  from 
the  deck  of  the  steamer.  They  seemed  to  float  so 
calmly  in  the  upper  sky  ;  they  were  so  cold,  and 
pure,  and  far  off,  looking  down  upon  this  world  as 
from  a  world  of  dreams.  So  he  set  out  on  foot, 
strongly,  up  into  the  opening  of  the  valley;  and  when 
Norton  Randolph  was  dawdling  over  his  coffee,  in 
Lucerne,  Guy  was  far  up  in  the  gorge  by  the  Devil's 
Bridge. 

Though  walking  rapidly,  and  with  a  grim  vigor 
of  exercise,  he  looked  about  him  little,  and  did  not  • 
see  much  of  what  was  around.  His  way  was  dusty 
and  hot ;  private  carriages  and  lumbering  diligences 
kept  passing  him,  presumably  on  their  way  from 
Italy  ;  and  the  rock-walled  road  seemed  little  less 
banale  than  the  quay  at  Lucerne.  He  found  a  quiet 
nook  in  the  Reuss,  below  the  Devil's  Bridge,  and  took 
a  plunge  in  the  river,  and  then  lay  for  an  hour  in  the 
sun,  smoking  his  briarwood  pipe,  with  his  hat  pulled 
over  his  eyes.  He  had  brought  a  few  sandwiches 
with  him,  upon  which  he  made  his  luncheon,  intend 
ing  to  avoid  hotels  as  far  as  possible.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  he  came  out  in  the  wider  valley  around 
Andermatt,  where,  or  at  Hospenthal,  he  had  expected 
to  stop  for  the  night.  The  inn  was  crowded  ;  upon 
the  piazza  he  saw  a  pile  of  alpenstocks,  encircled 
with  inscriptions  burned  in  the  wood,  commemorat 
ing  visits  to  the  Rigi,  Staubbach,  Pilatus,  and  other 
equally  memorable  exploits.  They  all  bore  the 
chamois-hook  at  the  end,  which  marks  the  tyro  in 
mountaineering  ;  and  from  the  dining-room  windows 


294  GUERNDALE. 

came  the  loud,  shrill  monotone  of  his  native  accent 
In  front  of  the  inn  lounged  a  few  Englishmen, 
goggle-eyed,  knickerbockered,  white-veiled. 

Impatiently,  Guy  turned  away  and  walked  on 
through  the  valley.  He  had  had  a  vague  idea  of 
going  on,  over  the  St.  Gothard,  into  Italy;  but  was 
weary  of  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  highroad,  and  now 
wished  to  go  still  farther  into  the  mountains.  He 
had  brought  with  him  a  map  of  the  country;  and,  on 
consulting  it,  decided  to  leave  the  main  road  at 
Hospenthal.  So  he  turned  aside  into  the  smaller 
road,  and,  leaving  its  upward  windings,  began  to 
climb  up  the  steep  incline  of  the  Furka.  But  he 
was  fairly  tired  oxit ;  every  moment  he  felt  tempted 
to  throw  himself  upon  the  alpine  roses  growing  at 
his  feet,  and  watch  the  sunset  light  flung  far  over 
the  green  lowlands  below  him  by  the  huge  ice 
mirror  of  the  Galenstock.  At  last  he  reached  a 
little  inn  at  the  summit  of  the  pass,  where  he  found 
quiet  and  a  room  for  the  night.  He  smoked  a  pipe 
on  the  balcony  overlooking  the  Rhone  glacier,  went 
to  bed  at  nine,  and  slept  twelve  hours. 

Still  he  wanted  to  get  away  ;  the  severe  physical 
labor  was  like  rest  to  him,  and  he  wished  to  plunge 
farther  yet  into  the  heart  of  the  highlands.  He  tried 
Meyringen,  and  wandered  a  day  or  two  in  that  val 
ley,  and  upon  the  Grimsel.  The  quiet  of  the  Alps 
was  grateful  ;  he  worked  hard  by  day,  and  at  night 
slept  peacefully  ;  while  the  five  giants  of  the  Oberland 
— the  Eagle,  the  Monk,  and  the  Maiden,  the  Horn 
of  Terror,  and  the  Dark  Horn  of  the  Aar— -kept  watch 
above. 


GUERNDALE.  2Q5 

Still,  he  was  restless;  the  roads  were  thronged  with 
travellers  ;  the  snows  were  still  far  off.  He  was  under 
the  spell  of  the  mountains,  and  wished  still  further 
to  explore  their  solitudes.  He  left  the  Oberland  for 
the  deeper  shades  of  the  Pennine  range  ;  taking  the 
Rhone  at  its  source,  where  it  bubbles  from  a  cavern 
in  the  broken  glacier,  he  followed  the  little  stream 
through  the  upper  Valais  ;  a  thinly  peopled  gorge, 
where  the  sun  does  not  shine  an  hour  a  day,  and  he 
saw  the  most  repulsive  forms  of  goitre.  Then  a  dil 
igence  brought  him  to  Visp,  where  he  spent  the  night, 
and  early  next  morning  bent  his  steps  southward,  up 
the  valley.  Here  he  found  no  carriage  road,  but  a 
rough  path  that  wound  tortuously  through  a  growth 
of  firs,  clinging  to  the  side  of  the  cliff,  and  chilly 
with  the  spray  of  the  glacier-streams  roaring  at  its 
base.  High  above  him  was  a  hamlet,  hanging  on 
the  very  brow  of  a  precipice.  It  was  cool,  almost 
too  cool  in  the  early  morning  ;  no  ray  of  sunlight 
was  yet  to  be  seen  above  the  mountains  on  his  left. 
Now  and  then  he  heard  the  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell, 
but  he  met  no  one  until,  after  three  or  four  hours' 
rapid  walk,  he  saw  the  quaint  little  village  of  St. 
Niklaus  ahead,  with  its  shining  tin  belfry.  The  path 
became  the  main  street  of  the  village  ;  but  there  was 
scarcely  room  to  walk  between  the  huge  manure- 
heaps  which  adorned  the  front  of  every  house. 

The  valley  of  Zermatt  has  now  become  a  common 
place  of  tourists  ;  but  they  can  never  change  the 
savage  grandeur  which  gives  it  its  charm.  As  Guy 
walked  on  beyond  St.  Niklaus,  the  valley  widened  ; 
the  scarred  cliffs  on  his  right  seemed  even  higher 


296  GUERNDALE. 

than  before  ;  their  bleak  faces  were  cleft  and  riven 
by  the  frost,  and  by  the  earthquakes  which  have 
more  than  once  depopulated  the  place.  But  between 
the  mountain  walls  was  a  wide  level  of  soft  green, 
and  upon  the  other  side  the  huge  knees  of  the 
Mischabel.  No  human  being  was  in  sight.  High 
up  on  the  right,  in  a  hollow  scathed  by  falling  rocks 
and  land-slides,  lingered  the  lowest  skirt  of  a  glacier, 
old  and  gray,  shrinking  now  far  up  in  its  lair  to  es 
cape  the  summer  heat,  and  leaving  the  worn  stones 
smooth  behind  it.  As  Guy  walked  on,  the  valley 
seemed  to  close  before  and  behind  him  ;  no  tree  or 
green  thing  was  visible,  nothing  but  the  cliffs  and  the 
torrent  between  them.  Then  Guy  turned  an  angle 
in  the  cliff,  and  looked  up  and  saw  the  Matterhorn 
before  him. 

A  long  time  he  must  have  lain  and  looked  at 
that  view  that  many  of  us  now  know  so  well.  In 
front,  the  wide,  warm  valley,  dotted  with  chalets  at 
its  upper  end,  and  just  above  them  the  great  green 
wedge  of  forest  that  seems  to  force  itself  through 
the  two  living  streams  of  ice  that  wind  on  either 
side.  Then  again  the  long  sweep  of  the  woods,  and 
the  barren  slopes  ;  and  far  above  these,  resting  on 
huge  rock  shoulders,  a  snowy  sea ;  and  out  of  this, 
with  one  strong  leap  the  eye  scarce  dares  to  meas 
ure,  rises  a  single  shaft  of  rock  and  ice,  piercing 
the  very  zenith  as  it  glitters  in  the  sunlight  with  its 
coronal  of  snow.  For  the  Matterhorn  is  a  cathedral 
that  no  man  has  wrought ;  nor  can  man  lie  down  be 
neath  its  shadow  and  think  of  man  alone.  The  very 
villagers  at  its  base  do  not  grow  sated  and  indiffer- 


GUERNDALE.  297 

ent,  as  is  the  wont  of  natives  living  in  such  scenes  ; 
they  speak  of  it  with  awe  and  fear  ;  long  they  would 
believe  the  mountain  supernatural,  and  said  no  man 
should  ever  stand  upon  its  crown.  And  Guy  gazed 
at  it  from  the  earth,  and  felt  that  in  all  the  world 
there  was  no  form  of  things  inanimate  like  this. 

Great  billows  of  gray  cloud  swept  its  snowy  shoul 
ders  ;  but  the  sun  shone  full  upon  the  highest  peak, 
clear  in  the  upper  blue.  Guy  lay  still,  in  the  long, 
sweet  grass  of  the  valley,  and  forgot  to  think  of 
himself  and  even  of  her  ;  the  peace  of  the  moun 
tains  was  upon  him,  and  the  passion  in  his  heart  lay 
stunned  into  silence. 
13* 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

" Or  chirrups  madrigals,  with  old,  sweet  words, 

Such  as  men  loved  when  people  wooed  like  birds, 
And  spoke  the  true  note  first." — AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

STILL  many  minutes  Guy  lay  drowsily,  at  peace 
with  the  world.  The  summer  day  wore  on,  and 
the  full  sunlight  came  down  into  the  valley  ;  the 
birds  flew  low  over  his  head.  A  dense  perfume  came 
from  the  crushed  grass  thick  with  wild  flowers  ;  the 
numberless  Alpine  insects  filled  the  air  with  the 
beating  of  their  wings.  A  strange,  sweet  sound  came 
to  his  ears,  a  low  and  liquid  melody.  He  listened 
dreamily  a  long  time  before  his  curiosity  was  aroused  ; 
he  was  curious  a  long  time  before  he  got  up  to  see 
what  it  was.  The  melody  was  well  known  to  him  ; 
it  was  an  old  German  song  that  came  to  him  cool 
and  sweet,  from  some  wooden  instrument,  like  water 
from  a  wooden  pipe. 

Guy  sat  up  and  looked  about  him.  The  sound 
seemed  to  come  from  a  little  chalet  near  by.  On 
coming  nearer,  the  chalet  proved  but  an  empty  cow 
house.  It  stood  hard  by  a  coppice  overrun  by  thick 
vines,  and  in  the  depth  of  this  thicket  there  was  a 
rush  of  water,  pouring  in  a  cloud  of  mist  from  some 
unknown  height,  and  trickling  in  little  slower 


.  GUERNDALE.  299 

streamlets  to  rest  in  a  pool  in  the  green  meadow  be 
low.  The  door  of  the  hut  was  open,  and  Guy  peered 
in  curiously.  The  place  inside  was  empty  and  now 
disused,  but  still  sweet  with  an  odor  of  old  summers, 
and  there  in  the  shade  lay  a  yellow-haired  youth. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back,  playing  on  some  wooden 
instrument,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  half  closed.  The 
boy  did  not  see  Guy  for  a  minute,  and  went  on 
breathing  his  melody  through  the  wood.  Behind 
him  lay  a  knapsack,  which  served  for  a  pillow  ;  and 
beside  him  was  an  old  German  student  cap  and  his 
alpenstock.  This  was  of  oak,  not  turned  in  a  lathe, 
but  hewn,  and  rounded  smooth  at  the  upper  end. 
Near  it,  wound  in  a  coil  of  rope,  was  an  ice-axe. 
Guy,  with  his  grave  face,  stood  at  the  doorway  look 
ing  in.  His  shadow  fell  upon  the  boy,  and  he  looked 
up  and  spoke  before  Guy  could  disappear. 

'•'•Herein!  "  said  he  pleasantly.  "  I  see  ;  you  heard 
mein  Schatz,  and  were  by  her  called  hither.  Fine 
morning  !  Pardon,  Herr,  that  I  do  not  rise  to  re 
ceive  you.  It  is  not  mine,  the  castle  you  behold  !  " 
and  he  smiled,  opening  wide  his  blue  eyes.  Guy  felt 
an  inclination  to  laugh,  observing  which,  the  boy 
laughed  merrily.  Then  as  Guy,  with  true  Anglo- 
Saxon  diffidence,  hesitated  upon  the  doorstep,  "Ach, 
pardon,  sir,  that  I  do  not  receive  you,  but  will  you 
not  come  in  from  out  of  the  sun  ?  She  is  so  warm, 
efen  for  de  beerts,  out  in  de  vallee."  This  in  Eng 
lish. 

"  Please  go  on  with  your  playing  ;"  said  Guy,  "  I 
like  to  hear  you."  The  boy  needed  no  invitation,  and 
had  already  begun  some  new  melody.  Guy  clasped 


300  GUERNDALE. 

his  hands  over  his  knees  and  leaned  backward.  They 
were  sitting  on  the  hay  with  which  the  earth  floor 
of  the  hut  was  strewn,  and  little  sunbeams  came  in 
through  the  chinks  between  the  logs  in  the  wall. 
"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  said  the  boy,  suddenly  stopping. 
"Most  often  you  English  do  not  know  music." 

"  How  did  you  know  I  \vas  English  ?  "  said  Guy, 
amused,  and  rather  abruptly. 

"  Ach  !  I  know  you  are  English  ;  for  you  are  traf- 
illing  for  pleasure,  and  you  are  here  in  the  Switzer 
land,  and  it  is  summer,  and  the  world  does  not  make 
you  glad.  But  I  do  not  think  you  are  English.  You 
come  from  America  ?  Not  so  ?  You  are  American." 

Guy  laughed.  "Ach,  I  knew  you  did  come  from 
America  ! "  and  he  broke  into  a  laugh  of  sympathy. 
"America!  I,  too,  haf  been  in  America,  and  I 
shall  go  there  again  !  "  And  the  boy  laughed  loud 
er  ;  and  seizing  his  instrument  began  to  pipe  the 
shepherd's  song  in  Tannhauser.  Guy  was  much  de 
lighted,  and,  turning  over  comfortably,  proceeded  to 
fill  and  light  his  pipe.  The  manners  of  his  young 
friend  were  so  frank  and  simple  that  one  could  not 
help  being  easy  in  his  company,  and  Guy  already 
felt  as  if  he  had  known  him  for  years. 

"You  haf  a  fine  country,"  the  boy  went  on.  "Yes, 
it  iss  wonderful,  your  country.  And  you  haf  great 
railways,  and  machines,  and  fabrics.  You  are  very 
ingenious  in  your  country  ;  and  your  climate,  it  is 
wundersckon.  Ach,  you  are  grand  fellows  in  your 
country.  But  you  do  not  know,  none  of  you,  to  be 
happy."  And  he  garnished  his  conversation  with 
another  oboe  obligate. 


GUERNDALE.  3OI 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am  sure.  You  are  all  free  in  your 
country,  and — what  you  say  ? — equal ;  and  you  try, 
each  one  of  you,  to  be  bigger  than  the  other  ;  and 
you  work  too  hard,  and  you  are  unhappy  if  you  are 
not  so  greater  ;  and  you  grow  tired.  Oh,  yes.  That 
iss  not  the  way  to  be  happy.  Now,  in  the  Vaterland 
we  are  all  so  different,  one  from  the  other  ;  but  we 
do  not  think  that  makes  nothing  ;  and  we  do  not 
envy  one  the  other.  One  is  happy  if  one  sees  what 
iss  fine  in  the  world,  and  what  is  beautiful  in  the 
country,  and  if  one  feels  what  iss  great,  and  loves  and 
iss  loved.  But  no,  you,  most  of  you,  do  not  care  for 
that  in  America." 

"  Do  you  always  take  your — your  flute  with  you  ?" 
said  Guy,  for  the  sake  of  something  to  say. 

"  It  iss  no  flute,  it  iss  oboe.  Yes,  I  do  take  her 
always  with  me.  She  iss  mein  Schatz.  Ach,  you 
know  what  that  iss  ?  Yess  ?  You  know,  I  haf  also 
another  Schatz — my  true  Schatz.  But  she  iss  not 
here.  No.  She  is  far  away. 

•  Schone,  helle,  goldne  sterne, 
Grusst  die  Liebste  in  der  Ferae, 
Sagt,  dass  ich  noch  immer  sei, 
Herzekrank  und  bleich  und  treu.' 

Yes,"  he  went  on,  suddenly  stopping  his  song,  "  she 
iss  in  America." 

Guy  lay  by,  little  disposed  to  laugh,  and  more 
touched  than  amused  by  this  childish  confidence. 
He  had  been  fifteen  minutes  with  this  fellow,  and  he 
was  already  giving  him  his  heart  history  !  If  Shake- 


3O2  GUERNDALE. 

speare  had  been  a  German  he  never  would  have  writ 
ten  that  line  about  daws  and  wearing  one's  heart  upon 
one's  sleeve.  The  boy  began  a  prelude  upon  his  oboe. 

"  You  do  not  climb  ?  You  do  not  know  the  moun 
tains  ? " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  said  Guy. 

"  You  haf  no  ice-nails  on  your  shoes.  But  it  is  a  fine 
thing,  climbing;  to  be  so  high  over  the  world.  Ach, 
you,  too,  should  climb.  Then  you  would  smile." 

Guy  smiled  very  decidedly  at  this. 

"  I  should  like  to  try,  but  I  have  no  experience. 
I  once  thought  of  trying  Mont  Blanc,"  he  laughed. 

"  Ach,  de  Mont-Blanc — he  iss  noding,  nodings  at 
all.  He  iss  but  one  big — what  you  call  him  ! — 
blateau.  You  should  come  vid  me.  Will  you  come 
with  me  ?"  cried  the  boy,  excitedly.  "Ach,  permit 
that  I  do  give  you  my  card  ! "  and,  with  a  sudden 
effort  for  formality,  he  produced  a  pasteboard,  on 
which  was  printed  : 

ERNST    GUTEKIND, 

POSEN. 

Guy  took  the  card  gravely,  and  handed  him  his 
own. 

"  Ach  !  "  said  Gutekind,  "  your  last  name  is  strange. 
I  do  not  know  it.  But  your  first  is  a  goot  name. 
You  haf  one  Ritter  Guyon  in  de  '  Faery  Queen.'  ' 

"  Have  you  read  Spenser  ? "  said  Guy,  surprised. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  haf  read  Spenser ;  he  is  one  great 
poet  ;  he  is  fery  sweet  ;  he  is  not  like  one  English 
man.  We  all  do  study  English  in  our  schools.  You 
haf  also  one  other  great  poet,  whose — whose  Vorfahr 


GUERNDALE.  303 

wass  one  Guyon.  He  was  Shelley.  He  wass  better 
than  all  your  others.  But  you — you  study  not  Ger 
man  ? " 

"  I  have  read  some  German,"  said  Guy.  "  Goethe, 
Kant,  Fichte,  Schopenhauer " 

"  Der  war  auch  ein  Narr!"  cried  Gutekind, 
savagely.  "  Ach,  no  !  You  should  read  Jean  Paul, 
Schelling — Heine,  he  was  too  sad  ;  and  Schopenhauer, 
only  what  he  wrote  of  aesthetik  was  goot ;  his  head 
was  turned  round  the  wrong  way.  But  you  haf  not 
told  me — will  you  not  come  with  me  ?  Ach,  say  that 
you  come,  and  I  will  show  you  what  are  the  Alps." 

Something  about  the  boy  pleased  Guy  ;  and,  in  a 
humor,  he  consented.  Gutekind  jumped  up  and 
seized  his  hand  enthusiastically  ;  and,  sitting  down 
by  his  new  friend,  proceeded  to  expand  in  new  con 
fidences. 

"  I  haf  left  home  that  I  might  be  among  the  moun 
tains  once  more,"  said  he.  "We  men  who  are  always 
in  the  affairs,  you  know,  the  false  things  seem  real 
to  us  ;  and  we  forget  what  is  true  ;  and  our  minds, 
they  do  not  keep  clean.  So  I  wished  once  more  for 
the  Alps,  that  I  might  make  high  and  pure  my  soul 
with  them.  Ach,  your  friend  was  sometimes  right  ; 
it  is  only  when  we  are  one,  united,  with  the  pure 
idea,  that  we  lose  what  is  wrong  and — and  irdisch.  I 
did  wish  again  that  I  might  go  up  into  the  Luft; 
that  I  might  leave  there  what  I  did  not  wish  to  re 
member.  And  then  I  shall  go  home,  and  then  to 
America  !"  laughed  this  imaginative  young  mystic. 

"  And  what  do  you  do  when  you  are  at  home  ? " 

"  I  am  a  fabrikant  of  cannon,"  said  Gutekind. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell, 
Whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute.     .     .     . 
Yes,  Heaven  is  thine  ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours  ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers — 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours." — POE. 

ALL  about  the  little  pine-wood  village  of  Zermatt 
are  huge  knees  and  buttresses  of  mountains 
whose  peaks,  far  distant  in  the  sky,  are  unseen  from 
the  valley.  Only  the  Matterhorn,  full  in  front,  soars 
into  the  blue,  like  a  huge  splinter  of  ice,  cleaving 
the  heavens.  But  the  morning  sunlight  comes  dan 
cing  down  over  miles  of  falling  glaciers  ;  vast  ter 
minal  moraines  fill  the  valley  and,  to  the  east,  the 
wooded  flanks  of  the  Mischabel  roll  away,  and  the 
great  snow  shoulders  of  Monte  Rosa.  And  Guy  felt 
the  mighty  consolation  of  the  hills  ;  he  was  happier 
that  night  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  long  day,  and 
slept  well  and  quietly,  for  the  Matterhorn  and  the 
Mischabel  and  the  great  Weisshorn  range  held  him  in 
their  arms,  and  shielded  him  from  the  world.  True, 
he  had  walked  nearly  thirty  miles  that  day ;  it  was 
late  in  the  evening  before  they  reached  honest  Mr. 
Seller's  little  inn,  and  the  last  few  miles  had  been 


GUERNDALE.  305 

enlivened  by  the  cheery  company  of  little  Gutekind. 
For  Guy  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him  ;  he  liked  the 
freshness  and  simplicity  and  the  honest  blue  eyes  of 
this  young  artificer  of  engines  of  destruction. 

And  Gutekind  had  conceived  a  vast  admiration 
for  Guy,  and  grew  ten  times  more  enthusiastic,  him 
self,  when  he  saw  Guy's  evident  enjoyment  of  the 
scenery  and  the  walk.  He  was  up,  bright  and  early, 
burning  with  delight,  and  wild  to  get  up  into  the 
highness,  as  he  expressed  it.  Even  Guy  caught  a  bit 
of  his  fever,  and  found  himself  earnestly  endeavoring 
to  persuade  a  guide  that  the  Cervin  might  be  at 
tempted  through  the  flecks  of  cloud  which  were 
clinging  to  its  sides.  But  Gutekind  grew  shy  at 
this  ;  it  was  too  much.  "  Perhaps  to-morrow,"  he 
said  ;  "one  might  always  try. 

'  Je  refiendrai  a  la  montagne — foila  tout ! 
Je  refiendrai  a  la  montagne — foila  tout ! 
Bour  ebouser  ma  pien-aimee, 
Celle  que  mon  goeur  a  tant  aimeee-e-e — 
Foila  tout !     Foila  tout !  ' 

We  might  well,  however,  go  to  walk  ? "  he  added. 
"We  haf  all  the  day  to  rest." 

So  they  followed  the  gorge  up  to  the  base  of  the 
glacier,  and  there  in  a  little  green  recess  under  the 
rocks,  hollowed  into  a  roof  by  the  torrent,  Guy  lay, 
through  the  afternoon,  and  smoked  his  pipe;  and  lit 
tle  Gutekind  sat  beside  him,  and  played  on  his  oboe, 
and  sang  snatches  of  song,  and  talked  a  curious  mix 
ture  of  common-sense  and  sentiment.  Above  them 
was  piled  the  ugly  moraine  of  the  Boden  glacier — 
great  rocks,  and  debris,  and  blocks  of  old  ice,  crusted 


306  GUERNDALE. 

at  the  surface  with  dirt  and  gravel, — for  the  old  age 
of  a  glacier  is  not  beautiful,  when  the  snow  cov 
erlet  is  gone,  and  the  purity  is  lost,  and  the  clear 
violet  ice  becomes  gray  and  honeycombed,  and  it 
sinks  to  die  in  the  hot  valley,  giving  birth  to  the  tor 
rent  that  bears  its  name. 

But  anything,  apparently,  made  Gutekind  happy ; 
and  he  sat  laughing  and  singing,  piping  on  his  oboe, 
and  running  off  occasionally  to  gather  some  Alpine 
rose  or  gentian,  intensely  blue.  He  had  hopes,  he 
said,  of  an  Edelweiss  ;  he  wanted  one  to  send  to  her ; 
but  they  were  too  low  for  them  yet.  And  Guy  looked 
at  him  with  amusement  and  perhaps  a  tinge  of  con 
tempt,  and  wondered  what  Norton  Randolph  would 
have  to  say  to  him  :  for  all  Americans  are  intolerant 
of  expressed  sentiment,  and  Gutekind  was  after  all  a 
bourgeois  and  took  the  world  quite  au  serieux  ;  while 
Randolph  was  familiar  only  with  that  world  which 
society  is  pleased  to  call  the  world,  le  monde  ou  Von  rif, 
le  monde  ou  I'on  s'ennuie.  But  they  were  screened  far 
from  this  world,  that  day  ;  and  the  torrent  falling 
beside  them  came  too  fresh  from  the  skies  to  be 
quite  earthy — just  a  touch  of  rock-grit  to  give  it 
strength.  So  Guy  lay  watching  it,  dreamily,  and 
thought  to-morrow  he  would  be  up  in  the  snows 
whence  it  came,  and  quite  forgot  to  smile  at  little 
Gutekind.  He  remembered  how  in  his  childhood 
he  had  so  lain  and  looked  into  a  browner  brook  with 
softer  motion,  and  he  threw  a  scarlet  leaf  in  the 
water  and  watched  it  eddy  around,  and  wondered  if 
the  little  rock-rimmed  pool  up  by  the  edge  of  the 
wood  were  just  as  it  used  to  be.  Then  he  bent  his 


GUERNDALE.  3O/ 

brow  over  the  stream,  and  the  water  reflected  his 
face  and  ran  on  with  a  new  shadow;  while  Gutekind 
played  idly  on  his  pipe,  then  laid  it  down  and  sang  in 
French  with  his  queer  German  accent : 

"  Si  fous  croyez  que  che  vais  dire 

Qui  j'ose  ai-ai-mer — 
Je  ne  saurais  bour  une  embire 
Fous  la  nommer.'1 

Guy  flung  himself  back,  somewhat  impatiently,  on 
the  grass.  "  Herr  Gutekind,  do  you  remember  the 
war  ~  " 

"  Ach,  Gott,  yes  !  "  said  Gutekind  with  a  start. 
"  Why  do  you  so  suddenly  ask  me,  do  I  remember 
the  war  ?  I  believe  well — I  was  a  soldier  myself." 

"  You — you  a  soldier  in  the  war?  Why,  you  were 
too  young  ! " 

"Ach,  no.  A  man  is  nefer  too  young  to  be  shot. 
I  haf  been  all  through  the  war.  It  wass  schreklich 
— it  was  terrible.  No,  no.  I  do  not  like  the  wars. 
I  seek  always  to  forget  all  that  I  haf  seen  of  war. 
Ach,  do  not  let  us  think  of  him  here  !  "  And  seizing 
his  oboe,  he  began  the  brook  melody  of  the  pastoral 
symphony ;  then  his  face  grew  serious,  and  he  laid 
the  instrument  down  again. 

"Ach,  yes.  I  haf  killed  many,  many  men.  You 
should  see  our  cannon.  They  were  fery  fine,  our 
cannon,  and  they  did  fery  well  ;  and  my  father,  he 
did  get  the  Iron  Cross.  I  was — what  you  call  him  ? 
artillerist.  But  noh.  The  war  was  not  a  true  war. 
Then,  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  thought  it  fery  fine — all 
fery  fine  indeed." 


308  GUERNDALE. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  a  war,"  mused  Guy. 

"  No,  no — you  would  not.  You  think  you  would 
like  him,  because  you  are  sad  and  triibselig,  oh  ! 
I  can  see.  But  noh.  To  see  men  killed  as  if  they 
wass  cattle,  it  is  not  nice.  Poor  fellows  !  and  to 
many  of  them  the  world  so  sweet." 

"  I  thought  you  Germans  were  all  pessimists  ?  " 

"  Himmel,  nein  !  das  sind  die  Narren.  No,  you 
come  up  with  me  to-morrow  in  die  Luft,  and  I  will 
show  you  how  the  world  is  wunderschon,  and  then 
you  will  nefer  forget  it.  Ach,  yes,  this  world  is  bad 
enough  if  you  think  the  thoughts  of  him,  and  you 
look  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  him,  and  you  do  not 
see  the  soul." 

"Truly,"  quoted  Guy,  "he  is  a  fool  who  abuses 
this  world  ;  for  he  has  none  other." 

"Yes,  yess  ;  you  haf  one  other,  that  is  outside  of, 
that  is  beyond  this.  And  it  is  the  licht  that  comes 
from  the  outside  that  makes  bright  this  world.  No  ; 
the  men  they  are  all  Selbstsucht,  egoist;  and  they  seek 
the  happiness  of  this  world  ;  and  then  they  are  not 
happy.  But  haf  they  right  to  complain  ?  Haf  they 
then  ein  Recht  nach  Gliick  ?  Nein,  nein,  not  here  ; 
and  this  world  is  not  the  true.  But  yet  there  are 
lights  in  the  world  ;  there  is  musik,  and  beauty,  and 
memory  and  the  poetry,  and  the  erhaben^  the  sub 
lime,  and  lofe  ;  and  they  are  not  of  this,  but  of  the 
true  world  ;  and  they  are  true.  Ach,  do  not  gom- 
blain  to  me  of  this  world  ;  it  is  only  der  Grobian,  der 
Grobian  who  iss  not  happy." 

And  little  Gutekind  rose  quite  angrily  ;  and  Guy 
walked  back  with  him  as  he  stowed  his  oboe  in  a 


GUERNDALE.  309 

case,  and  strode  along  with  his  hat  stuffed  with  wild 
flowers.  Soon  his  face  cleared  up,  and  he  began 
again  with  his  snatches  of  song  : 

"  Ich  bin  die  Prinzessin  Use  und  wohne  itn  Ilsenstein  ; 
Komm  mit  nach  meinem  Schlosse,  wir  wollen  selig  sein." 

"Do  not  you  think  that  I  am  Christian,"  he  said, 
suddenly  turning  to  Guy,  as  if  it  were  suggested  by 
the  song.  "  Oh,  no  ;  the  Bibel,  it  iss  a  goot  and  a 
beautiful  book.  But  it  iss  not  all  of  the  truth." 
And  the  same  evening  he  got  into  a  quite  furious 
discussion  with  an  English  divine  who  conducted 
the  service  in  the  inn  on  Sundays  and  risked  his 
neck  over  ice-slopes  on  week  days.  Furious,  that  is, 
on  one  side  ;  for  Gutekind  uttered  his  most  appalling 
pantheistical  doctrines  in  the  callow  and  childlike 
manner  that  was  peculiarly  his  own.  The  curate, 
who  had  not  read  a  dozen  theological  works  in  as 
many  years,  much  less  philosophy,  and  was  chiefly 
conversant  with  J.  C. 's  work  on  whist,  was  shocked, 
and  retreated  terrified  behind  the  thirty-nine  articles 
and  St.  Paul.  But,  as  Gutekind  evidently  considered 
the  latter  a  far  less  trustworthy  and  unprejudiced  au 
thority  than  Strauss,  he  calmly  masked  these  posi 
tions  and  proceeded  to  rout  the  Englishman  with 
Spinoza  and  Schelling.  "  Either,"  he  would  say, 
"  something — whether  mind,  man,  or  matter,  we  do 
not  know — exists  outside  of  God,  or  it  does  not.  In 
the  former  case,  der  Herr  is  an  atheist ;  for  his  God 
is  not  infinite,  that  is,  not  God  at  all.  In  the  latter 
case,  der  Herr,  like  myself,  is  a  pantheist  ;  for  every 
thing,  even  der  Herr  himself,  is  a  mode  of  God." 


310  GUERNDALE. 

Pinned  behind  this  dilemma,  the  clergyman  stared 
helplessly  at  Guy  ;  but  he  was  engaged  in  conversa 
tion  with  a  charming  Russian  countess,  who  clapped 
her  hands  at  Gutekind's  worst  speeches,  pouted 
when  he  admitted  the  existence  of  any  deity  at  all, 
and  confessed,  in  soft,  broken  English  and  a  musical 
voice,  to  being  something  of  a  nihilist ;  she  tried  her 
best  to  fascinate  Guy,  retired  to  her  bedroom  some 
what  disgusted  that  he  did  not  make  love  to  her, 
and  was,  as  Gutekind  expressed  it,  "so  charmed  to 
be  so  charming." 

Gutekind  had  a  horror  of  the  femmes  du  monde  ; 
but  Guy  heard  him  softly  humming,  as  he  came  up 
stairs — 

"  Ich  glaub'  nicht  an  den  Herrgott, 

Wovon  das  Pfufflein  spricht — 
Ich  glaub'  nur  an  dein  Auge 
Das  ist  mein  Himmelslicht." 

Guy  went  to  sleep  in  a  moment ;  but  at  two  o'clock 
Ernst  Gutekind  came  and  knocked  at  his  door. 
"  The  morning  iss  fine;  it  is  time  to  depart,"  said  he. 

So  Guy  got  up,  feeling  wretchedly  uncomfortable. 
His  room  was  very  cold  and  dark,  and  it  seemed  al 
most  impossible  to  dress  by  the  light  of  the  one  tallow 
dip  the  inn  allowed  ;  however,  he  struggled  wearily 
into  his  clothes.  His  mountain  boots  had  been  wet 
the  day  before,  and  the  huge  nailed  soles  and  leather 
sides  were  damp  and  stiff,  and  greasy  with  fresh  tal 
low.  Footsore  as  he  was,  it  seemed  an  endless  task 
to  stamp  them  on,  but  at  last  he  did  so,  and  limped 
down-stairs.  There,  in  the  gloom  of  the  general 
room,  he  found  Gutekind  and  a  trio  of  guides.  It 


GUERNDALE.  311 

was  a  dismal  start ;  even  Gutekind  seemed  quiet 
and  subdued,  and  the  guides  whispered  together, 
morosely,  in  one  corner,  as  if  they  were  plotting  a 
conspiracy.  One  of  them  had  made  some  hot  cof 
fee,  a  bowl  of  which  Guy  drank,  and  felt  a  bit  bet 
ter.  Finally,  they  sallied  forth  into  the  little  village, 
Guy  stumping  along  like  a  cripple. 

Still,  as  they  plodded  up  the  steep  path,  silently 
and  in  single  file,  Guy  gradually  forgot  his  stiffness 
in  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene.  The  night  was 
cold  and  damp  ;  the  nearest  mountains,  where  they 
could  be  seen,  gleamed  a  ghastly  white  in  the  moon 
light.  They  were  walking  through  a  wet  pasture  : 
first  a  guide,  then  Gutekind,  then  another  guide, 
then  Guy,  and  after  him  the  last  guide.  The  men 
kept  silence  ;  they  wore  peaked  hats,  and  cloaks 
slung  gracefully  upon  one  shoulder  ;  the  effect  was 
of  some  midnight  party  of  banditti.  The  long  valley 
behind  them  was  all  in  a  shimmer  of  moonlight ; 
but,  as  they  wound  up  the  alp,  the  moon  sank  be 
hind  the  Weisshorn  and  left  them  to  the  faint  light 
of  the  stars,  and  the  valleys  all  in  the  darkness,  with 
only  the  vague  sky-line  to  mark  the  mountain. 

There  was  something  strangely  beautiful  in  it  all. 
In  the  exhilaration  of  the  morning  air,  Guy's  fa 
tigue  disappeared  ;  he  forgot  all  but  the  climb  before 
them  ;  slowly,  imperceptibly,  other  thoughts  and 
memories  faded  away.  The  darkness  itself  gave  a 
solemn  grandeur  to  the  scene  ;  the  guides  marched 
silently,  with  steady  steps  and  bowed  heads  ;  Gute 
kind,  looking  up,  was  whispering  a  song.  They  had 
left  the  grass,  and  were  on  a  long  slope  of  shale  ; 


312  GUERNDALE. 

beside  them  was  a  mound  of  worn  and  rounded  rock, 
along  the  edge  of  which  they  took  their  way.  From 
below  came  the  hoarse  roar  of  a  torrent,  as  omni 
present  in  the  Alps  as  the  murmur  of  the  waves 
by  the  sea.  A  wall  of  white  became  dimly  visible 
above  and  ahead  ;  they  were  come  to  the  edge  of  the 
snow.  Here  the  guides  halted  a  moment,  and  Guy 
looked  behind. 

It  was  darker  than  ever.  Hill  and  valley  were 
alike  undistinguishable  ;  the  very  stars  were  paler  ; 
all  was  pitchy  black.  It  seemed  to  Guy  he  could 
scarcely  see  the  sheen  of  the  snow  around  him.  No 
ray  of  dawn  appeared. 

Suddenly  the  jagged  ice-peak  of  the  Weisshorn, 
twenty  miles  to  the  west,  flamed— blood-red.  He 
started,  as  at  a  blow.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  this 
scarlet  patch,  hung  mid-high  in  the  darkness,  against 
a  black  sky. 

Then  a  minute,  and  a  rosy  flush  fell  upon  the 
Matterhorn,  and  a  tender  glow  like  ashes-of-roses 
spread  slowly  down  over  the  vast  snow-fields  in  front, 
in  infinite  gradations  of  soft  pink  and  white.  And 
now,  peak  answering  peak,  each  in  turn  flashed,  like 
warm  marble,  into  light ;  only  the  lower  glaciers 
kept  their  chill,  ashy  white  ;  and  all  above  them  was 
the  day.  But  still  the  valleys  were  vast  gulfs  of  dark 
ness,  like  Dante's  Malebolge,  unpierceable  by  any 
power  of  star. 

And  so,  group  after  group  of  snowy  pinnacles 
turned  scarlet,  and  red,  and  rosy,  and  glitter-white  ; 
and  yet  the  huge  chasms  yawned  below,  and  the  night 
brooded  in  the  valleys.  At  last  a  sunbeam,  glancing 


GUERNUALE.  313 

full  upon  the  icy  surface  of  the  Matterhorn,  fell 
down  and  backward  into  the  long  valley  like  an 
arrow  from  the  sun  ;  and  they  saw  the  birth  of  dawn 
below.  At  first,  the  deep  valleys  were  shrouded  in 
a  sea  of  mist ;  then,  as  the  sunbeam  cleft  the  cloud, 
the  gray  veil  wavered  and  rose  slowly  upward.  They 
felt  its  chill  breath  as  it  rolled  by  them  ;  the  mists  of 
the  night  ascended,  like  incense,  at  the  rising  of  the 
sun  ;  and  there  came  the  sweet  morning  smell  of  the 
woods  and  meadows,  and  the  tinkle  of  bells  and  little 
rills,  far  down  below.  . 

And  Guy  turned  thankfully  to  the  bread  and  meat 
before  him,  and  forgot  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
beings  of  the  lower  world. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"Die  Mutter  faltet  die  Hande  ; 
Ihr  war,  sie  wusste  nicht  wie  ; 
Andachtig  sang  sie  leise 
'  Gelobt  seist  du,  Marie."  " — HEINE. 

• 

HOW  little  tourists  know  of  the  true  charm  of 
the  Alps  !  Ladies,  who  walk  on  the  prome 
nades  and  terraces  of  the  large  towns,  drive  sleepily 
in  their  comfortable  private  carriages  over  the  mili 
tary  roads,  buy  wood-carvings  and  crystals  at  the 
chalet-shops,  or  even,  perhaps,  venture  in  boats  on 
the  lakes;  parties  of  "personally  conducted,"  de 
lighting  in  casinos  and  bands,  in  railway  ascents  of 
the  Rigi,  charmed  at  evening  illuminations  of  the 
Giessbach,  eloquent  over  the  adventures  of  the  Mau- 
vais  Pas.  And  now  even  Zermatt  is  invaded  by  these 
latter  tourists,  and  the  warm  recesses  of  the  Val  Tour- 
nanche — and  next  they  will  be  for  bedecking  the  Mat- 
terhorn  himself  with  electric  lights.  But  there  is  still 
a  world  these  do  not  know.  They  frequent  only  the 
carriage  passes  ;  the  dusty  roads,  and  the  hot,  broad 
valleys,  where  only  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  snows  is 
vouchsafed  them,  like  a  dream  never  to  be  realized, 
and  the  fag-ends  of  the  glaciers  hang  down,  dirty 
and  uninviting  ;  and  then  they  go  back  to  Birming 
ham  and  talk  of  Switzerland. 


GUERNDALE.  31$ 

But  no  one  knows  the  secret  of  the  mountains 
unless  he  meets  the  high  Alps  face  to  face  ;  unless 
he  sees  all  their  moods,  and  grapples  with  all  then 
dangers  ;  unless  he  spends  days  above  the  snow-line 
and  only  descends  to  sleep.  Then  he  finds  another 
world  than  ours,  a  world,  like  Nirwana,  above  the 
evils  of  birth,  and  death,  and  change;  swept  by  keen, 
clear  winds,  or  lulled  in  the  stillness  of  the  stars.  It 
is  a  world  eternal,  and  its  colors  are  white  and  blue  ; 
the  red  and  green  of  the  earth  are  far  removed  ;  no 
plant  lives,  no  green  thing  moves,  no  moss  grows  ; 
the  valleys  are  lost  and  forgotten  ;  nothing  is  seen 
but  the  billowy  sea  of  ice,  shining  white,  save  where 
the  crags  of  rock  break  through  the  foam  of  the 
snow  ;  and  the  icy  waves  lie  motionless,  as  if  stilled 
at  a  word  of  God.  Far  below  may  be  heard  the  fall 
ing  of  water,  the  rending  of  rock,  the  rush  of  the 
avalanche  ;  but  the  masses  of  the  mountains  are  at 
rest,  and  the  high  peaks  seem  to  say,  in  Dante's 
words  : 

"  Dinanzi  a  me  non  fur  cose  create 
Se  non  eterne,  ed  io  eterno  duro. " 

For  at  such  times  we  forget  that  Helmholtz  places 
the  duration  of  the  sun  itself  at  seventeen  millions 
of  years. 

Over  the  mountains  is  the  calm  of  eternity,  and 
the  peace  of  the  high  places  enters  into  the  soul. 

All  that  week  Guy  and  Gutekind  were  above  the 
line  of  change,  and  it  was  a  week  which  Guy  never 
forgot.  He  learned  to  know  of  the  mountains  :  he 
won  a  love  which  he  would  never  lose.  Rarely,  at 


316  GUERNDALE. 

night,  would  they  even  descend  so  far  as  to  seek 
shelter  in  some  chalet  or  hay-filled  hut ;  oftener  they 
lay,  wrapped  in  blankets,  on  the  snow  itself  and  fell 
asleep  watching  the  stars.  For  none  of  the  pains 
that  come  from  the  earth  and  the  damps  of  night  are 
known  in  these  upper  airs  ;  only  the  radiance  of  the 
light  there  blinds  the  eyes  of  those  who  live  in  lower 
places.  So  Guy  would  lie  at  night,  vaguely  remem 
bering  that  below  in  the  world  there  were  many  men 
who  went  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  troubling  them 
selves  ;  and  then  he  thought  how  well  the  mountains 
fitted  Dante's  description  of  the  higher  angels,  for 
they  lifted  their  great  white  faces 

"  All  radiant,  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 
Of  having  looked  upon  the  front  of  God." 

Then  Gutekind,  who  rarely  sacrificed  his  oboe  ex 
cept  in  actual  climbing,  would  bring  it  out  and  pipe 
sweet  melodies  to  the  echoes  of  the  Mischabel.  And 
Guy  would  watch  the  shifting  curtain  of  the  clouds 
below  them,  while  Gutekind  twined  edelweiss  for 
his  "  Schatz  "  in  America  ;  and  only  rarely,  when 
they  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  far  valley  through  a 
rift  in  the  fleecy  floor,  would  they  wonder  what 
might  be  going  on  in  the  under  world. 

One  day  Guy  has  often  described  to  me.  It  was  a 
day  when  all  things  seemed  too  lovely  to  leave  ; 
each  charming  picture,  as  they  wound  up  the  ascent, 
seemed  to  woo  them  to  rest  there  and  go  no  further. 
They  had  spent  the  night  in  a  little  chalet  in  the 
Saas  valley,  and  purposed  to  ascend  the  Dom.  So 
they  toiled  vigorously  over  the  pastures,  and  up  the 


GUERNDALE.  317 

precipitous  Fee  glacier,  and  by  seven  in  the  morning 
had  reached  the  snow  above  the  ice.  Most  of  the 
higher  peaks  were  in  front;  but,  as  they  turned,  they 
saw  far  to  the  east  and  south,  where  the  mountains 
dwindled  away,  and  fell,  in  brown,  purple,  green  foot 
hills,  to  the  distant  plains  of  Lombardy  ;  and  far  on 
the  horizon,  below  the  sun,  a  blue  mist  floated  above 
the  Lago  Maggiore. 

Guy  had  a  moment  of  weakness  ;  let  the  rest  of 
the  day  care  for  itself,  he  thought,  and  he  threw  him 
self  down  upon  the  last  soft  bed  of  alpine  roses. 
There  he  lit  a  pipe,  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  and 
flatly  refused  to  move.  Gutekind,  nothing  loath, 
though  making  one  or  two  feeble  remonstrances 
about  the  length  of  the  day's  work,  and  the  proba 
bility  of  soft  snow  in  the  afternoon,  threw  himself 
down  beside  Guy  ;  and  both  became  lost  in  the  pure 
delight  of  the  view. 

" Ah, "said  Gutekind,  "I  wish  that  I  had  here  my 
oboe."  Then,  after  a  long  pause,  "Oh,  I  do  wish 
that  I  could  bring  her  here.  She  is  like  you  Ameri 
cans  ;  they  are  not  strong. 

'  Sie  hat  mir  Treue  versprochen — 
Undgab  ein  Ring  dabei!  ' 

But,  ah,  you  do  not  know  of  whom  I  speak  ?  I  do 
not  speak  of  my  oboe  now  ;  I  speak  of  my  feins 
Liebchen." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Guy  with  a  smile,  "I  have  heard 
you  mention  her." 

Gutekind  hummed  a  song  or  two  ;  then  suddenly, 
he  spoke  impulsively : 


318  GUERNDALE. 

"Yes,  I  haf  told  you  a  little;  but  I  did  not  tell 
you  all.  I  said  that  I  was  come  here  to  the  Alps  be 
cause  I  did  wish  to  rest  from  my  business.  But  it  iss 
not  true — no,  it  iss  not  true.  Let  me  tell  you  why  I 
haf  come  here ;  it  is  because  I  shall  see  her ;  I  shall 
now  go  to  Amerika  myself  and  I  shall  see  her." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  marry  her  ? " 

"  Oh,  yess.  I  shall  marry  her.  I  haf  been  be 
trothed  to  her  now — ach,  it  is  nearly  five  years.  But 
now  it  iss  all  over,  and  I  can  go,  and  so  I  am  so  happy, 
weisst  du.  I  haf  been  working  for  her,  that  I  might 
get  a  home  ;  and  now  I  haf  won  it,  and  I  can  bring 
her  to  my  own  house,  and  she  can  haf  all  that  she 
shall  want.  Yess;  I  can  give  her  all." 

"  But  why  do  you  come  to  Switzerland?  "  queried 
Guy. 

"  I  could  not  go  to  her  from  my  work  and  my 
business  and  all  that  I  haf  seen.  No,  I  did  wish  to 
come  here  first,  that  I  make  high  my  mind  with 
the  mountains  and  haf  my  rest  before  I  do  see  her. 
Oh,  I  haf  had  a  hard  time — a  fery  hart  time,  do  you 
know.  And  then  I  did  wish  to  write  to  her  that  I 
come.  It  is  since  five  years  now  that  I  do  lofe  her. 
And  she  said  then  that  she  did  lofe  me  ;  but  I — I 
was  young,  and  I  could  not  keep  my  wife  as  she  did 
need.  So,  I  came  back  to  Germany,  and  I  worked 
that  I  might  get  things  of  my  own.  For  my  father, 
he  iss  rich,  but  he  has  many  sons  and  daughters  ; 
and  he  did  not  like  me  to  marry  her,  for  he  thought 
that  her  health  it  was  not  good,  and  she  would  not 
make  a  good  wife.  And  so,  I  did  go  to  work  ;  but 
then  the  war  came,  and  I  wass  of  the  Landwehr,  and 


GUERNDALE.  319 

ach  !  the  war  was  terrible.  And  I  did  not  hear  from 
her  only  once  in  the  war ;  and  then  I  was  wounded, 
and  I  could  not  return  to  my  work  for  two  years 
more,  and  the  waiting,  it  did  make  me  more  ill." 

"Where  does  she  live  ?" 

"  She  iss  in  New  York,  and  her  name  is  Fannie — 
Fannie  Batts." 

"And  now  you  can  marry  ?" 

"  Yess,  I  haf  done  very  well — oh,  fery  well  indeed, 
in  my  business.  And  I  haf  a  house  for  her,  and  there 
is  a  garten,  and  a  droschke  that  she  may  ride,  for  she 
is  not  always  well " 

"  And  so  you  are  going  to  New  York  to  marry  her 
there  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going.  She  has  always  written  to  me, 
— not  so  often  as  I — but  then,  you  know,  she  was 
not  strong,  and  it  was  hard  to  wait  so  long,  and  then 
it  is  not  easy  for  a  maiden  to  write,  it  is  not — not 
sittlich.  And  her  father  he  did  object  to  our  mar- 
riach,  because  I  was  a  German  and  poor.  But  now 
he  will  let  it  be.  Ach,  Herr  Guerndale,  my  dear 
friend,  you  must  see  her.  She  is  so  lofely  !  " 

Guy  lay  silent. 

"  But  ach,  you  too  haf  lofed  ? "  broke  in  Gutekind. 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  said  Guy,  forcing  a  laugh. 

"Oh!  I  know.  You  forget  to  talk;  and  you  do 
not  care  whether  you  stop  on  the  ntv'e.  And  you  do 
not  laugh  at  me." 

Guy's  laugh  came  naturally,  this  time. 

"Ach,  my  friend,  do  not  fear  it.  I  tell  you  this 
world  it  iss  vain  and  little  worthy  ;  and  love  and 
beauty,  they  are  gifen  us  to  keep  us  mindful  that  it 


320  GUERNDALE. 

iss  not  all."  Then  the  boy  went  on  with  his  song 
snatches,  and  Guy's  mood  grew  quiet ;  and  so  they 
forgot  the  time,  until  Gutekind  suddenly  came  to 
himself,  and  gave  the  word  to  advance.  Then  the 
ill-matched  pair,  roped  together,  went  up  the  arete. 

But  this  long  delay  made  them  late.  It  was  three 
o'clock  before  they  stood  on  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Mischabel.  Guy  was  reluctant  to  leave  the  view  ; 
for  the  Dom  is  the  highest  of  all  the  Swiss  mountains 
and  overlooks  the  northern  Oberland.  But  Gutekind 
was  more  prudent ;  he  spoke  of  long  and  tedious  ice- 
cutting,  and  the  young  German  was  an  admirable 
mountaineer.  The  slopes  were  far  too  steep  for  a 
glissade  ;  still,  fortunately,  there  was  no  new  snow,  and 
the  crust  was  "icy  and  firm.  But  cutting  steps  is  a 
tedious  process.  They  got  into  a  long  couloir  ;  and 
at  dusk,  had  only  reached  a  little  snow  plateau  at  its 
base,  somewhere  above  the  glaciers  over  Randa.  So, 
little  loath,  they  postponed  the  final  glacier-climb 
to  the  morning  light,  and  had  their  supper,  side  by 
side,  at  the  base  of  the  cliff. 

It  was  quite  dark,  that  night,  and  they  talked  long 
and  kindly  together  ;  Ernst  Gutekind  speaking  of 
his  love,  Guy  listening  silently  to  the  simple,  sweet- 
minded  fellow,  and  contrasting  his  friend's  happi 
ness  with  his  own  future  life.  Again  and  again  the 
boy  ran  over  his  old  story,  until  his  earnest  voice 
was  hushed  to  silence  and  his  fair  head  lay  back 
upon  the  snow,  and  his  tender  blue  eyes  closed  in 
sleep. 

Guy  lay  awake  for  some  time.  The  night  was  still 
and  starless  ;  now  and  then  broken  by  a  distant  flash 


GUERNDALE.  321 

of  cloud-lightning,  or  a  fall  of  snow.  He  must  have 
fallen  asleep,  an  hour  or  two,  for  then  he  awoke, 
about  midnight,  and  heard  a  thunder  of  falling  rock. 
The  sound  came  from  above,  louder  and  louder ; 
finally,  with  a  crash,  the  main  crag  rattled  along  the 
centre  of  the  couloir,  striking  flashes  of  fire  as  it 
bounded  from  the  jutting  rocks  back  to  the  ice  again. 
A  shower  of  smaller  stones  fell  about  them  ;  then 
the  long  after-thunder  came  up  from  below,  a  pro 
longed  reverberation  of  echoes  ;  and  again  the  night 
was  black  and  still. 

Guy  was  nervous  and  frightened.  He  got  up  to 
ask  Gutekind  to  change  their  resting-place.  But  a 
small  stone  had  struck  him,  and  the  boy  was  dead, 
and  his  yellow  hair  dabbled  with  blood,  and  his  brain 
beaten  into  the  snow,  and  Guy  could  just  see  his  pale 
face  looking  up  into  the  darkness. 
14* 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

"  They  said  that  love  would  die,  when  hope  was  gone. 
And  love  mourned  long,  and  sorrow'd  after  hope  ; 
At  last  she  sought  out  memory,  and  they  trod 
The  same  old  paths  where  love  had  walked  with  hope, 
And  memory  fed  the  soul  of  love  with  tears." — TENNYSON. 

ALL  that  night  Guy  lay,  with  open,  weary  eyes, 
and  watched  for  dawn.  The  little  plateau 
was  of  small  extent  ;  he  dared  not  move  in  the  dark 
ness.  At  first  he  was  utterly  unnerved  ;  he  wished  that 
he  could  weep,  or  faint  like  a  woman  ;  then  he  waited 
and  watched  for  another  fall  of  stones.  But  none 
came  after  the  one  that  had  been  fatal  to  his  poor 
young  friend.  His  eyes  were  dry  and  tearless  ; 
and  he  stood  up  and  swung  his  arms  in  an  agony  of 
self-reproach.  Was  tiis  life  so  dark,  then,  that  it 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  paths  of  those  he  met  ?  Was 
there  really  a  curse  upon  him  ?  If  there  was  mercy 
in  heaven,  why  had  poor  Gutekind  been  the  one  to  be 
killed  ?  Bah — there  was  no  heaven  !  and  he  laughed 
aloud,  with  a  voice  that  sounded  strange  to  him  ; 
then  he  put  his  head  back  upon  the  snow,  and 
strained  his  open  eyes  to  see  the  dawn. 

It  grew  colder,  as  the  night  wore  on,  and  more 
silent ;  the  looser  stonqs,  now  frozen  fast,  ceased  to 
thunder  down  the  mountain  ;  the  distant  lightning 


GUERNDALE.  323 

stopped,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  cool  air  restored 
his  strength  and  calm.  With  the  first  twilight  of  the 
morning  he  got  up  again,  and  laid  a  handkerchief 
across  the  boy's  face,  and  folded  his  arms  upon  his 
breast.  In  doing  this,  he  found  around  his  neck  a 
ribbon,  and  with  it  a  small  gold  locket.  He  opened 
it,  and  found  inside  a  portrait  of  a  pretty  girl  and  a 
little  wisp  of  yellow  hair,  and  Guy  thought  of  the  poor 
girl,  far  away  in  America,  who  had  loved  this  boy, 
and  he  left  the  locket  with  its  owner,  sleeping  there 
in  the  eternal  snow. 

It  was  a  dangerous  climb,  down  over  the  glaciers 
to  the  little  village  ;  almost  impossible  for  him  alone, 
with  no  rope,  no  one  to  hold  him  while  he  chopped 
the  steps.  But  the  concentration  of  mind  and  muscle 
did  him  good  ;  and  he  worked  his  way  manfully  ; 
Settle  la  mart  pent  nous  vaincre,  he  thought,  and  bah  ! 
there  was  no  God  ;  his  life  was  charmed.  So  think 
ing,  when  he  had  leisure  to  think  at  all ;  risking  his 
life  a  hundred  times,  sliding  boldly  down  the  steeper 
slopes,  careless  of  crevasses,  it  took  him  all  day  to 
reach  the  plain,  and  it  was  already  evening  before  he 
could  bring  the  news  to  the  inn. 

A  party  of  search  was  at  once  made  up  for  the 
next  morning,  with  a  number  of  guides,  and  Guy  as 
leader,  for  he  was  determined  to  go  back  with  them, 
despite  his  exhaustion.  Getting  five  hours'  profound 
sleep,  they  were  off  at  two  in  the  morning.  A  party 
of  six  or  seven  men,  with  rope  and  axes,  they  accom 
plished  easily  in  a  few  hours  what  had  taken  Guy  all 
day  ;  but  they  found  no  ^trace  of  poor  Gutekind. 
Guy  was  certain  of  the  spot,  but  the  fresh  snow  was 


324  GUERNDALE. 

now  gone,  find  it  was  evident  that  the  heat  of  the 
day  before  had  caused  an  avalanche  which  had  car 
ried  with  it  the  body  of  the  young  German. 

He  wrote  to  Gutekind's  parents,  and  told  them 
that  he  would  stay  at  Zermatt  awaiting  their  instruc 
tions.  He  could  not  bear  to  write  to  the  poor  girl 
in  America,  telling  her  of  the  death  of  the  young 
lover  she  was  even  then  expecting.  So  he  wrote  to 
a  friend  in  New  York,  asking  him  to  make  inquiries 
about  her  and  to  break  to  her  the  news,  for  Guy 
knew  that  Gutekind's  father  had  had  no  acquaint 
ance  with  her.  And  every  day,  for  that  and  several 
weeks,  he  searched  the  Mischabel  glaciers  for  a  trace 
of  the  boy's  body,  but  without  success.  It  was  prob 
ably  buried  far  beneath  the  ice  of  the  lower  glacier. 

At  last,  a  letter  came  from  the  father  "thanking 
him  for  his  trouble  "  and  begging  him  to  abandon  a 
useless  search.  Guy  thought,  somewhat  bitterly, 
that  the  boy's  death  did  not  seem  to  affect  them  over 
much.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  sense  of  blank- 
ness  in  his  own  life  came  over  him  again.  But  not 
for  long.  Guy  felt  that  the  mountains  had  taught 
him  a  lesson,  after  all  ;  his  strong  bodily  health  gave 
him  a  less  morbid  mind  ;  he  would  go  on  to  the  end. 
So  he  turned  and  set  his  steps  for  Freiberg ;  bvit  not 
before  he  had  himself  walked  around  into  the  Saas 
valley  and  got  the  old  oboe  that  Gutekind  had  been 
so  fond  of,  which  Guy  chose  to  keep  without  ask 
ing  his  father's  permission.  Then  he  left  the  terri 
ble  Oberland,  and  never  again  returned  to  Zermatt, 
but  never  lost  the  memory,  of  a  single  day  of  the  six 
weeks  he  had  passed  there  that  summer.  Spite  of 


GUERNDALE.  325 

all  that  had  happened,  he  kept  his  love  for  the  high 
mountains  ;  and  most  of  his  vacations,  in  following 
years,  were  spent  in  other  valleys  of  the  Alps. 

He  went  back  to  Lucerne,  arriving  there  late  in 
September,  and  found  a  letter  from  his  friend  in 
&New  York.  "  After  getting  your  last,"  he  wrote,  "  I 
'tried  to  find  a  Fannie  Betts.  I  have  only  succeeded 
in  discovering  a  Fannie  Bates  ;  but  she  is  engaged, 
and  about  to  be  married,  to  a  young  man  from  the 
West.  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  with  yellow  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  but  rather  ordinary,  I  fancy.  .  .  .  She  had 
allowed  some  attention  from  a  young  Prussian  engi 
neer  who  came  over  here  five  years  ago  and  was  re 
ported  to  be  engaged  to  him  ;  but  her  friends  say 
that  was  only  a  flirtation.  At  all  events,  she  is 
shortly  to  become  Mrs.  Thompson.  I  send  you  her 
address  ;  under  the  circumstances,  I  did  not  think 
best  to  tell  her  of  Gutekind's  death "  —  Guy 
threw  the  letter  .aside.  He  thought  of  the  young- 
German,  buried  in  the  snow,  and  wearing  her  pic 
ture  at  his  heart,  and  decided  to  leave  her  in  igno 
rance  of  her  lover's  fate.  Perhaps  it  was  better  so,  for 
both  ;  and  he  remembered  his  mad  outcry  that  night, 
and  thought  the  course  of  nature  was  not  always 
blind. 

Then  Guy  went  to  Freiberg,  and  studied  there 
and  at  other  universities,  four  years.  At  first,  he 
often  used  to  sigh  for  courage.  He  had  resolved  to 
go  on  to  the  end,  but  it  is  hard  to  go  through  life 
for  no  better  reason  than  the  fancy  of  noblesse  oblige. 
It  is  hard  to  have  courage,  lacking  faith  and  hope  ; 
it  is  hard  to  have  faith  and  hope  without  love.  What 


326  GUERNDALE. 

hero  would  be  brave,  fighting  for  no  cause  Still, 
he  thought  of  poor  Gutekind,  and  tried  his  best , 
once  or  twice,  too,  in  the  beginning,  he  thought  of 
Annie  ;  she  had  passed  from  his  life,  and  yet  he  felt 
that  he  would  not  lose  his  memory  of  her  for  all  the 
world.  Her  memory  was  yet  his  own,  and  he  did 
not  count  the  sadness  that  it  brought  him.  The  first 
day  that  he  went  to  a  lecture,  he  found  himself,  as 
of  old,  writing  her  name  across  the  blank  page  ; 
then  he  set  himself  again  to  forget  her  after  that. 

The  month  after  he  got  to  Freiberg,  he  had  a  let 
ter  from  Lane,  telling  him  of  Annie's  marriage  to 
Philip.  Occasionally,  too,  he  heard  from  Randolph 
and  from  Strang  ;  but  the  former  was  away  on  some 
characteristic  trip  in  Central  Asia,  and  the  latter 
hard  at  work,  bridge-building  in  Dakota,  for  a  Bos 
ton  railway  corporation. 

It  is  hard,  writing  a  brief  history  of  a  life,  to  con 
vey  to  the  reader's  mind  the  idea  of  the  lapse  of  so 
long  a  time  as  four  years — four  years  passed  in  strong 
effort,  but  with  few  outside  occurrences  of  impor 
tance.  For,  after  the  first  few  weeks,  Guy  worked 
very  steadily.  He  was  not  all  the  time  at  Freiberg  ; 
a  semester  or  two  was  passed  in  other  schools.  There 
was,  of  course,  no  necessity  for  so  long  a  stay  abroad; 
but  Guy  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  going  home  ;  he 
felt  no  impulse,  as  yet,  urging  him  to  active  employ 
ment  in  his  profession.  Strang  often  wrote,  asking 
him  to  come  ;  and  Guy  as  often  answered  with  ex 
cuses. 

In  the  summer  of  1874  (I  happen  to  remember  this 
date,  although  not  quite  sure  of  many  before  this), 


GUERNDALE.  327 

Guy  had  a  characteristic  letter  from  Lane.  Lane 
was  a  very  good  letter-writer ;  for  the  world,  to  him, 
consisted  in  the  havings  and  doings  of  people  and 
society  ;  and  though  his  horizon  was  rather  limited, 
his  letters  were  full  of  personalities  and  amusing  ob 
servations  upon  the  men  and  things  of  which  he 
commanded  an  extensive  view  from  his  social  emi 
nence  in  Boston.  He  rarely  observed  such  parts  of 
the  United  States  as  lay  beyond  a  somewhat  limited 
circle  in  the  Eastern  cities ;  when  he  did,  it  was  with 
a  mild  surprise  that  the  national  character  was  so 
little  influenced  by  his  Boston  Faubourg  Saint-Ger 
main.  Lane's  opinions  were  so  assured,  and  his 
prejudices  so  very  positive,  that  his  character  was 
completely  negative.  "My  dear  Guerndale,"  he 
wrote,  "though  you  have  owed  me  a  letter,  for  a 
long  time,  I  keep,  as  you  see,  my  promise  of  writing 
to  you.  There  is  not  much  to  write  about,  to  you 
who  have  been  away  so  long  from  Boston.  I  hope 
you  are  coming  back  soon  ;  really,  if  you  do  not,  you 
will  be  quite  forgotten;  except,  of  course,  among  your 
friends.  Boston  is  very  much  changed,  of  course  ; 
the  fire  has  even  improved  the  city.  There  are  sev 
eral  new  churches;  one  quite  the  finest  in  America," 
etc.  "You  \vill  be  surprised  to  learn  of  Miss  Kitty 
Cotton's  engagement ;  still  more  so,  when  you  hear 
that  it  is  to  John  Strang.  People  here  are  very 
much  surprised  that  she  took  him.  He  is  not  a  Bos 
ton  man  ;  and  she  must  have  had  plenty  of  chances. 
However,  you  know  him  quite  well ;  so  he  has  doubt 
less  written  you."  ....  "  The  new  president  of 
Harvard  is  becoming  quite  radical,  and  there  is  much 


328  GUERNDALE. 

talk  about  it.  I  suppose  the  papers  over  there  have 
told  you  how  Grant  is  misconducting  himself.  Mrs. 
Bill  Willing  has  been  left  a  lot  of  money,  and  has  a 
brand  new  carriage  and  footmen  in  livery,  with  a 
coat-of-arms  on  the  panel.  Of  course,  people  laugh 
a  good  deal  when  they  think  who  her  grandfather 
was."  .  ..."  I  suppose  you  heard  of  old  Mr. 
Bonnymort's  death.  He  had  grown  quite  feeble  of 
late,  and  they  say  there  had  been  disputes  between 
him  and  Symonds.  Symonds  has  been  living  rather 
extravagantly ;  they  say  he  has  been  speculating 
largely,  and  has  given  up  his  business."  .... 
"Tom  Brattle  is  off  in  a  yacht  with  Symonds  this 
summer.  He  has  been  quite  devoted  to  Miss  Ruth- 
ven  of  New  York  ;  people  say  he  would  marry  her, 
if  he  had  money  enough,"  etc.  So  John  was  going 
to  marry  Kitty  Cotton  after  all,  thought  Guy,  and 
Randolph  had  been  wrong.  He  wondered  that  John 
had  not  written  to  him,  and  went  to  Dresden  and 
bought  a  set  of  china  to  send  to  his  old  chum. 
Shortly  after,  he  got  a  warm  letter  from  Strang  ;  it 
had  been  sent  to  Freiburg  in  the  Black  Forest  by 
mistake. 

Guy  worked  very  hard  the  following  winter.  He 
wrote  a  scientific  thesis  which  gained  him  much 
praise.  He  had  one  letter  from  Mrs.  Symonds, 
written  very  cheerfully,  but  saying  little  about  her 
self.  Guy  read  it  many  times,  very  carefully  ;  for 
he  liked  to  think  that  her  life  was  a  happy  one. 

One  summer,  two  years  after  he  went  to  Freiberg, 
Guy  met  the  Symonds,  at  Baden-Baden.  Annie  was 
sitting  alone,  in  the  garden  by  the  Kursaal,  when  he 


GUERNDALE.  329 

saw  her ;  she  looked  rather  pale,  he  fancied,  and 
started  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  then  became 
quite  flushed  with  the  pleasure  of  the  meeting.  She 
talked  to  him  confidentially  and  kindly,  like  an  old 
friend,  but  very  quickly  ;  Guy  was  very  grave,  and 
as  he  thought  natural.  Annie  kept  glancing  behind 
her  nervously,  as  if  to  see  whether  Philip  were  com 
ing  ;  he  had  gone  into  the  play-room  for  a  moment, 
she  said.  Curiously  enough,  little  was  said  of  him 
or  of  the  last  three  years  ;  they  both  talked  mostly  of 
earlier  times,  although  Guy  studiously  avoided  re 
ferring  to  the  scenes  and  sayings  which  were  brightest 
in  his  memory.  He  spoke  much  of  his  studies  and 
of  the  interest  he  took  in  his  profession  ;  he  said 
once  how  fond  he  had  been  of  her  father,  and  saw 
the  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  and  grew  wild  at  the 
thought  of  having  given  her  pain.  She  was  very 
sweet,  and  her  manner  even  more  charming  than 
ever  ;  and  she  talked  brightly  of  the  future,  and  of 
her  life  at  home,  and  of  seeing  Guy  back  in  America. 
But  her  face  was  pale  and  worn,  and  it  touched  Guy 
to  the  heart  to  see  that  she  seemed  used  to  being 
alone. 

It  \vas  an  hour  or  more  before  her  husband  re 
turned.  He  greeted  Guy  warmly,  and  wanted  him 
to  join  him  over  supper  and  a  bottle  of  wine  with  a 
lot  of  jolly  men  he  knew  ;  but  Guy  made  a  pretext 
of  an  early  departure  the  next  morning,  in  excuse. 
Philip's  face  was  red,  and  he  was  stouter  than  of  old  ; 
his  old  jollity  had  not  left  him,  but  he  was  louder 
than  usual  in  his  manner.  He  told  Guy  of  Bixby's 
marriage  "to  a  silly,  countrified,  insipid  little  thing 


33O  GUERNDALE. 

— the  last  girl  in  the  world  you  would  have  thought 
Billy  would  care  for."  Philip  seemed  to  have  quite 
forgotten  their  old  difference  ;  and  Guy,  too,  treated 
him  very  naturally  ;  and  congratulated  himself,  when 
he.went  back  to  the  hotel,  that  he  had  so  well  kept 
his  secret  from  Annie,  and  had  so  little  betrayed, 
that  night.  But  as  he  did  so,  he  angrily  brushed 
away  a  tear  that  came  upon  his  face  ;  and  he  lay 
awake  long  hours,  haunted  by  the  tired  look  in  her 
sweet  eyes,  the  look  that  had  crept  into  them  again 
when  Philip  came  back.  "Oh,  God,"  he  murmured, 
"  is  she  unhappy,  then  ?" 

But  the  same  night,  when  Annie  went  alone  to  her 
room,  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  wept.  For  all  the 
long  years  he  had  tried  to  win  her  love  she  had 
never  known  ;  and  now  he  had  tried  to  keep  it  from 
her,  and  the  light  of  sorrow  came  to  her,  and  she 
saw  far  do\vn  into  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"  O  why,  why  did  you  love  me  all  these  years  ? 
Why  not  grow  cruel  to  me,  as  I  to  you  ? 
Had  both  been  false,  neither  had  had  to  rue 
One  thing,  nor  shed,  as  I  do,  hard  vain  tears." 

— W.  H.  MALLOCK. 

I  WONDER,  after  all,  is  there  a  higher  courage 
than  that  we  term  dogged — the  courage  of  de 
spair  ?  The  \vord  would  seem  to  indicate  a  reproach  ; 
as  we  call  a  man  a  dog  of  a  Mussulman,  or  Christian, 
as  the  case  may  be,  allowing  for  all  prejudices.  But 
if  a  man  can  have  higher  virtues  than  courage  and 
truth,  I  do  not  know  them  ;  and  if  any  man  has  more 
of  these  two  than  many  a  dog,  I  do  not  know  him. 
No  ;  dogs  were  given  to  men  as  models  of  character  ; 
the  common  metaphor  is  unjust,  and  the  superfluity 
of  kicks  over  halfpence  most  deplorable. 

So  Guy  lived  and  worked  four  years,  doggedly  ; 
for  his  courage  had  outlived  his  hope.  And  if  in 
that  time  he  never  once  thought  of  Annie,  he  thought, 
most  of  the  time,  that  he  had  resolved  not  to  think 
of  her.  But  he  kept  to  the  old  motto  and  his  own 
resolve. 

We  can  control  our  actions,  but  not  our  moods. 
And  despite  himself,  there  would  come  days  when  ill 
ness  or  enforced  idleness  gave  Guy  leisure  to  think  ; 


332  GUERNDALE. 

then  his  reveries  were  not  as  light  as  in  old  days, 
and  the  thought  would  recur  that  he  had  been  called 
out  of  himself  into  life  by  Annie,  and  he  could  not 
help  thinking  that,  although  he  had  tried  so  hard, 
he  had  not  yet  learned  how  life  could  be  without 
her.  He  could  not  reach  back  with  his  mind  to  a  time 
when  he  had  not  loved  her  ;  he  could  remember  noth 
ing  before  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  present 
life  was  more  like  a  dream  than  were  those  childish 
days,  and  would  be  less  clearly  remembered  by  him 
in  days  to  come.  Four  years  of  his  life — no,  six, 
ten— were  clear  ;  all  the  rest  was  vague.  His  love 
had  been  to  his  life  like  a  river,  and  given  him  all 
that  was  in  it  of  brightness  and  of  good  ;  all  that 
was  in  him  worthy  had  come  from  her.  And  now 
that  she  was  gone,  his  life  was  dry  and  barren,  and 
the  bloom  was  dying,  and  the  weeds  sprang  up. 

But  no — Seule  la  mart  pent  nous  vaincrc, — and  Guy 
would  choke  these  thoughts  aside,  and  bend  his  will 
back  to  work,  and  seek  to  comfort  his  heart  with  the 
thought  that  she,  at  least,  was  happy.  Alas,  it  was 
harder  to  do  this  after  the  meeting  at  Baden,  and  so 
it  was  the  more  urgent  that  he  should  never  think  of 
her  at  all.  No,  he  never  would  again.  Besides,  she 
had  forgotten  him  ;  and  thank  Heaven,  she  would 
never  know  what  his  life  was.  And  thinking  these 
things  overmuch,  he  thought  that  he  was  not  think 
ing  of  her,  and  found  it  hard. 

I  dare  not  say  how  many  times,  when  Guy  was 
thinking  thus,  Annie  was  alone  in  her  great  house 
and  softly  crying.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  Guy 
never  saw  the  tears  in  the  tender  eyes  he  loved  ;  Guy 


GUERNDALE.  333 

was  far  in   exile,  but  there  is   compensation  in  all 
things  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well. 

Poor  Annie.  I  cannot  bear  to  tell  this  part  of  the 
lives  of  Guy  and  Annie — I  must  hasten  over  it,  say 
ing  briefly  what  I  learned  long  afterward.  For  if 
there  was  one  thing  right  in  Guyon  Guerndale's 
strange  life,  it  was  the  love  that  made  that  life  so 
sad  ;  and  Annie  Bonnymort  had  a  heart  as  warm  as 
the  divine  love,  and  a  soul  that  came  from  high 
Heaven,  as  any  one  might  see  who  looked  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  her  nature  to  love  with  a  love  that 
might  have  saved  many  a  wrorse  man  than  Philip 
Symonds  ;  yet  could  she  never  love  again  what  once 
she  knew  ignoble.  Had  there  been  one  spark  of 
greatness  in  him,  magnanimity  of  any  kind,  whether 
for  good  or  evil,  he  would  have  understood  her, 
possibly  adored  her.  But  Phil  was  a  good  fellow,  a 
jolly  companion,  tolerant  of  others  and  expecting 
tolerance  for  himself  ;  contemptuous  of  things  he 
could  not  understand,  he  had  that  most  worthless, 
most  hopeless  form  of  conceit,  which  is  self-content 
without  self-respect.  An  average  man,  he  saw  that 
ither  men  were  like  him,  weak,  easy-going,  sensual 
—in  his  life  Annie  was  out  of  place. 

Yet  they  might,  as  people  say,  have  "  got  along  " 
ogether,  while  the  sunshine  lasted.  But  Annie  was 
low  a  woman,  and  hers  was  not  a  nature  to  be  satis- 
ied  with  "  getting  along  together,"  which  Phil  could 
lot  be  expected  to  know.  For  what  had  she  to  com 
plain  of  ?  He  was  kind  to  her.  Probably  most  of  his 
nen  friends  would  have  sided  with  Phil ;  for  he  was 
i  good-natured  fellow  enough  ;  the  world  had  always 


334  GUERNDALE. 

treated  him  well,  and  he  was  willing  to  treat  the 
world  well,  his  wife  included.  Everybody  always 
liked  him  ;  while  he  was  living  a  fast  life  in  Paris, 
everybody  liked  him  ;  when  he  married  Annie  Bonny- 
mort  for  the  fortune  he  knew  was  hers,  everybody 
liked  him  ;  even  when  he  lost  bets  and  could  not 
pay  them,  everybody  liked  him.  While  he  lived 
royally,  and  kept  his  horses  and  his  yacht,  and  en 
tertained  his  friends,  and  showed  a  gentlemanly 
taste  for  breeding  setters,  and  had  the  carelessness 
in  money  matters  of  a  good  fellow  who  squanders 
his  own  money  as  freely  as  his  friend's,  all  spoke  well 
of  him.  Not  many  men  stopped  to  notice  that  his 
pleasures  were  such  as  his  wife  could  rarely  share, 
or  remembered  that  Phil  had  long  since  spent  what 
remained  to  him  of  his  own  fortune. 

So  Phil  lived  these  few  years,  and  kept  his  flow  of 
spirits  and  his  fine  physique  and  his  jolly  goodfellow- 
ship,  and  grew  more  popular  than  ever  as  it  seemed  ; 
and  none  of  the  ladies  in  his  fashionable  set  but 
envied  Mrs.  Symonds  her  carriage  and  her  jewels 
and  her  style  of  living,  and  perhaps  the  husband  who 
so  freely  gave  them  all  to  her — out  of  her  money. 
And  when  Mr.  Bonnymort  died,  Phil  built  himself  a 
fine  new  house  ;  and  not  to  know  Phil  Symonds 
argued  yourself  unknown — if  you  were  a  man,  be  it 
said  ;  for  Phil  was  a  man's  man,  exclusively,  and 
hated  the  society  of  ladies — ladies  whom  he  could 
not  entertain  in  his  own  way  with  a  few  chosen 
spirits  among  his  friends.  I  fear  some  ladies  were 
willing  to  take  him  on  his  own  terms  ;  for  Phil  was 
an  easy-going  fellow,  and  took  life  easy,  and  liked 


GUERNDALE.  335 

easy  company  and  easy  manners.  And  for  one  thing, 
I  am  glad  that  Phi-l  kept  no  accounts,  and  his  wife 
never  "saw  or  knew  all  the  ways  in  which  her  money 
went  ;  Annie  did  not  think  much  of  the  money.  The 
best  horses  Phil  bought  did  not  drag  his  wife's  car 
riage.  Phil,  indeed,  was  very  well  content  to  leave 
his  wife  alone,  and  had  far  too  modest  an  opinion  of 
himself  to  see  why  that  proceeding  should  leave  her 
unhappy.  He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  in  her  com 
pany  :  doubts,  incipient  questionings,  a  nervousness 
as  unwonted  as  it  was  unwelcome. 

No  one  ever  heard  Annie  complain  of  her  husband, 
no  on^  ever  even  saw  her  look  unhappy,  except  per 
haps  her  maid  ;  but  she  tried  her  noble  best  to  keep 
her  love  for  him,  and  to  give  him  love  for  her,  which 
Philip  never  had.  People  whom  she  met  in  society 
thought  her  rather  proud.  As  for  Phil,  he  liked  her 
well  enough  ;  but  what  could  she  do  with  him  ?  His 
world  was  not  hers  ;  he  did  not  understand  her,  he 
did  not  even  care  to  -try.  Phil  was  contented  enough 
with  life.  He  did  not  \vant  anything  more  ;  why 
should  she  ?  Though  she  tried  her  best  not  to  show 
her  sadder  thoughts  to  him,  Phil  was  conscious  of  a 
mute  disapproval  on  her  part,  and  it  angered  him 
when  he  thought  of  it.  Did  not  all  the  world  say  he 
was  a  damned  good  fellow  ? 

I  suppose  Annie  had  loved  Symonds  ever  since 
the  two  were  children.  But  I  do  not  believe  she 
really  loved  him  after  they  were  married  ;  and  it  was 
the  struggle  she  made  to  love  him  still  which  almost 
broke  her  heart.  Hers  was  a  nature  which  found  it 
easier  to  love  than  to  make  compromises  ;  her  insight 


336  GUERNDALE. 

* 
was  too  clear  to  make  a  shrine  where  there  was  no 

divinity.  Like  Guy,  she  could  deceive  herself  once, 
but  only  once  ;  and  she  could  have  forgiven  her 
husband  any  crime  or  fault,  save  those  that  made 
her  despise  him. 

After  that  summer  when  she  met  him  at  Baden, 
she  often  thought  of  Guy  ;  and  she  knew  too  well 
why  he  stayed  in  Europe,  and  did  not  come  back, 
though  he  must  have  learned  his  profession  long  ere 
this  ;  for  Guy,  by  this  time,  was  nearer  thirty  than 
twenty.  But  Guy  was  still  a  boy  at  heart — now 
young,  just  as,  when  he  was  young  in  years,  he  had 
seemed  old.  The  picture  of  what  the  world  ought 
to  be  was  yet  as  fresh  in  his  mind  as  when  he  was 
eighteen  ;  in  this  best  way  of  all  ways,  Guy  never 
lost  his  youth.  Alas  for  him,  perhaps  ;  and  yet  I 
think  that  was  what  made  some  of  us  so  fond  of  him. 
As  for  Annie,  I  used  to  hear  from  my  wife  of  her ; 
she  had  known  her  very  well  as  a  girl  ;  and  she  told 
me  how  lovely  she  was,  and  what  a  noble  woman. 
I  think  even  then  my  wife  thought  Annie  and  her 
husband  were  unhappy  together  ;  of  course,  I  did 
not  know  all  these  things  until  long  afterward. 

Well,  here  were  Annie  and  Philip  and  Guy  ;  and 
it  was  perhaps  hard  to  see  how  that  somewhat  insou 
ciant  divinity  who  holds  the  web  of  fate  was  to  un 
ravel  their  fortunes.  As  I  said  before,  I  suppose  in 
smooth  waters  Philip  would  have  steered  well 
enough  ;  he  and  Annie  would  have  got  along  together, 
and  I  should  not  have  been  at  the  pains  of  writing 
this  story.  But  a  time  came  when  Philip  suddenly 
woke  up  to  the  fact  that  his  second  fortune  was 


GUERNDALE.  337 

going,  too.  So,  he  gave  up  his  yacht,  and  a  horse  or 
two,  and  in  a  flush  of  grateful  self-approbation,  went 
to  work  ;  that  is,  he  began  again  his  old  business  of 
stock-broking. 

Still,  when  the  first  flush  of  self-esteem  was  over, 
he  felt  that  it  was  infernally  hard  that  he  should  be 
cut  down  in  his  income  ;  the  domestic  expenses  en 
tailed  by  marriage  were  heavy,  after  all.  Well,  it 
was  all  the  more  necessary  to  make  money  quickly. 
So,  with  some  money  of  his  wife's  and  a  nominal  hun 
dred  thousand  advanced  by  old  Waterstock,  he  went 
into  partnership  with  Jim  Waterstock,  son  of  Water- 
stock  aforesaid,  of  the  old  (that  is,  twenty  years  estab 
lished)  firm  of  Waterstock,  Proxy  and  Company.  Old 
Waterstock  was  out  of  business,  but  was  given  out 
on  change  to  be  their  sleeping-partner ;  and  Proxy 
put  them  into  one  or  two  good  syndicates,  and 
they  did  well.  For  all  the  world  said  Phil  was  a 
jolly  fellow,  and  deserved  to  get  along ;  and  get 
along  he  did,  though  I  doubt  if  he  knew  much  of 
business. 

Guy  knew  very  little  of  all  this.  He  heard,  from 
other  men,  of  Phil,  his  popularity  and  success,  but 
not  much  of  Annie.  She  had  written  to  him  once  or 
twice  when  he  first  came  abroad  ;  but  she  never  wrote 
after  the  meeting  at  Baden.  This  made  Guy  un 
happy,  not  divining  the  reason  ;  but  he  strove  to 
comfort  himself  with  the  thought  that  she  was  happy 
and  had  forgotten  him. 

So  Guy  worked  hard  in  Germany,  and  his  courage 
gave  him  strength  ;  and  he  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  all  over,  and  everything  was  right,  and  they  were 


338  GUERNDALE. 

all  very  happy,  and  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  home. 
Strang  had  been  writing  many  letters  to  him,  urging 
him  to  come.  Strang  was  married  and  settled.  It 
would  be  very  pleasant  to  see  all  his  friends  again, 
Guy  said  to  himself.  And  he  would  try  to  succeed, 
and  realize  his  old  dreams  and  ambitions.  He  did 
not  quite  see,  in  these  days,  why  he  had  chosen 
mining  engineering  ;  it  was  a  selfish  profession,  good 
only  for  making  money  ;  he  would  have  wished  for 
something  more  public,  more  generally  useful,  scien 
tific  or  political.  However  he  must  do  what  he  could 
with  himself  and  it.  He  would  see  Annie  again 
when  he  returned  ;  he  was  thankful  that  the  world 
spoke  so  well  of  Phil.  He  hoped  at  least  that  to  her 
he  had  never  shown  what  might  be  in  him  unworthy. 
And  he  tried  hard  to  remember  his  old  fondness  for 
Philip,  and  to  like  him  as  much  as  ever,  and  to 
persuade  himself  that  he  had  been  wTrong  in  con 
demning  him.  Guy  was  a  fine  fellow  in  those 
days,  broad-shouldered  and  deep-voiced  ;  for  he  had 
lived  a  straight,  sober  life,  and  his  eyes  were  deep 
and  tender,  and  his  face  firm-lipped  and  heavy- 
bearded. 

And  Guy  himself  was  feeling  the  glow  of  success, 
that  spring.  He  had  done  what  he  had  proposed  to 
himself  ;  he  held  a  high  reputation  in  the  scientific 
department  of  his  universities,  for  he  had  been  to 
more  than  one.  And  again  he  would  say  to  himself 
that  Annie  was  happy  ;  and,  as  for  him,  why,  he  was 
successful,  and  no  doubt  he  too  would  be  happy 
some  day  ;  as  the  old  Saxon  bard  said,  the  founda 
tions  of  happiness  were  a  suffering  with  contentment, 


GUERNDALE.  339 

a  hope  that  it  might  come,  and  a  belief  that  it  would 
be.  And  after  all,  as  Norton  used  to  say,  we  have 
no  right  to  happiness,  and  it  is  childish  to  cry  because 
we  have  it  not.  He  often  thought  of  little  Gutekind; 
poor  little  Gutekind  who  had  taught  him  so  much. 
He  kept  the  old  instrument  upon  which  the  boy 
used  to  play  ;  and  sometimes  he  would  take  it  from 
its  case,  and  think,  while  looking  at  it,  of  that  hot 
afternoon  in  the  deep  valley  when  he  had  heard  poor 
Gutekind  playing  to  the  cows,  and  his  shadow  had 
fallen  on  the  threshold,  and  the  boy  had  looked  up 
with  those  simple  blue  eyes  of  his. 

Ah,  well.  He  had  done  what  he  had  proposed  ; 
now  he  would  go  back  to  America.  Spite  of  all,  the 
prospect  did  not  excite  Guy  overmuch  ;  and  he  made 
his  preparations  for  the  journey  quietly  and  quickly. 
A  few  days  before  he  meant  to  leave  Freiberg, 
he  had  a  letter  from  Lane.  It  was  like  most  of 
Lane's  letters  ;  containing  much  the  same  sort  of 
talk  that  one  uses  to  make  conversation  at  a  "party- 
call." 

"I  have  been  meaning  to  write  for  a  long  time  ; 
but  one's  social  duties  take  up  so  much  of  one's 
leisure,  although  really  I  cannot  say  what  I  have 
been  doing."  .  .  .  "There  has  not  been  much 
to  write  about  ;  the  weather  has  been  beastly,  this 
spring."  ...  "  One  or  two  engagements,  none 
of  them  particularly  interesting,  as  they  have  been  re 
ported  any  time  these  fifteen  years."  .  .  .  "Tom 
Brattle  is  doing  very  well,  and  I  see  him  often  ;  he 
is  treasurer  of  one  of  his  uncle's  mills,  not  far  from 
ours,  and  we  often  go  down  together.  Have  you 


34O  GUEKNDALE. 

seen  anything  of  little  Bixby  ?  They  say  he  has 
married  somebody  abroad  ;  at  all  events,  he  has  not 
been  seen  over  here  for  a  year  or  two.  I  believe 
Strang  has  taken  his  wife  off  to  Arizona  or  Alaska  or 
some  such  place,  but  I  do  not  know." 
"  Some  people  have  turned  up  here,  calling  them 
selves  Darcy,  with  letters  to  my  people.  They  say 
they  lived  a  long  time  at  Dresden';  did  you  ever 
hear  of  them  there,  and  do  you  know  anything  about 
them  ?  I  suppose  you  were  sorry  to  hear  of 
Symonds'  failure.  It  seems  he  has  been  speculating 
with  his  wife's  money  and  a  little  of  other  people's, 
and  has  lost  all  her  fortune  besides  his  own.  I  am 
afraid  he  has  behaved  in  a  rather  shady  way  ;  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  very  dirty  scandal  about  it.  They 
talk  about  false  pretences  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
They  say  Mrs.  Symonds  is  very  ill.  Symonds  him 
self  cannot  be  found.  Meantime,  another  woman 
has  turned  up  and  is  making  a  good  deal  of  trouble. 
I  do  not  believe  he  treated  his  wife  very  well.  It  has 
quite  ruined  his  reputation  in  Boston,  though  I  be 
lieve  they  are  more  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  New 
York.  It  has  made  a  great  deal  of  talk,  as  Symonds 
was  a  well-known  man,  popular  at  the  clubs.  I  never 
liked  him.  Waterstock,  his  partner,  has  been  ar 
rested.  It  is  fortunate  that  Mrs.  Symonds  has  no 
children,  as  she  is  left  quite  destitute.  We  are  all 
very  sorry  for  her,  but  of  course  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done."  . 

Nothing  to  be  done  ?  An  hour  after  getting  this 
letter,  Guy  was  in  the  train  and  going  westward. 
All  his  energy  of  action  had  come  back  to  him  ;  and 


GUERNDALE.  341 

when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  railway  carriage,  it  was 
with  bright  eyes,  and  a  flushed,  firm  face.  The  im 
pulse  of  a  new  life  was  in  him  ;  he  had  not  done 
anything  with  such  a  will  for  years.  For  four  years 
his  life  had  been  repression  ;  now  it  was  action,  and 
he  sat  upright  in  his  seat,  and  watched  the  country 
fly  by,  almost  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips. 

He  took  out  Lane's  letter  again  ;  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  found  to  read  the  end  of  it.  It  con 
tained  nothing  but  gossip  and  commonplaces.  He 
crumpled  it  in  his  pocket,  lit  a  cigar,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  again. 

Then  first  he  found  time  to  think.  Hitherto,  his 
action  had  been  rather  impulse  than  resolve.  He 
sat,  watching  the  hedge-rows  dash  by  in  rapidly 
changing  perspective.  He  watched  the  trees  on  the 
horizon,  and  remembered  how  he  used  to  think, 
as  a  child,  that  there  were  more  trees  beyond 
them,  and  beyond  these  more  trees  again,  and  so 
on  till  the  mind  grew  weary.  They  were  in  the 
plains  of  Bavaria,  and  the  day  changed  into  night 
with  the  long,  faint  twilight  of  a  country  without 
hills. 

Suddenly,  in  all  its  plain  hopelessness,  the  thought 
stood  out  in  his  mind  :  What  could  he  do  ?  Lane 
was  right,  speaking  for  himself ;  much  more  for 
Guyon  Guerndale.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  What 
right  had  he  to  help  her  ?  Could  he  go  back  to  her, 
and  thereby  reveal  to  the  evil  world  a  love  he  had 
so  long  kept  secret  ?  And  if  he  went  to  her,  what 
would  the  world  say  ? 

His  clenched  hands  relaxed,  his  head  sank  help- 


342  GUERNDALE. 

lessly  upon  his  breast.  Then  he  had  a  moment  of 
rage.  God  !  who  cared  what  the  world  would  say  ? 
But  then  he  knew  that  Annie  would  not  think  as  he 
did  ;  nor  would  he  wish  her  so  to  think. 

His  mood  left  him,  and  he  broke  down.  He  had 
the  compartment  to  himself,  and  thought  aloud.  So 
Annie — Annie  whom  he  loved — was  in  grief,  and  lie 
could  do  nothing.  She  might  be  crying,  broken 
hearted,  at  that  very  moment,  and  he  could  do  noth 
ing  to  help  her.  He  might  as  well  be  dead.  And 
there  was  no  hope — none,  none,  none.  It  was  an 
agony  of  impotence.  "  Oh,  my  darling  !  "  he  whis 
pered  ;  and  then,  over  and  over  again,  "oh,  my  dar 
ling  ;  oh,  my  darling ! "  Then  he  rose  to  his  full 
height,  and,  stretching  out  his  arms,  looked  upward, 
and  the  place  grew  dark  before  his  eyes,  and  he  fell 
backward  on  the  floor. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  it  was  Frankfort.  His 
face  was  wet  with  tears,  and  he  saw  that  he  had  been 
crying.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  night  had  been 
one  long  dream.  But  now  it  was  over,  and  he  had 
learned  what  he  had  to  do.  It  was  decided  ;  and  he 
saw  his  life  lie  wearily  before  him.  He  had  learned 
that  he  could  not  go  back.  No  ;  he  could  do  noth 
ing.  God  help  her  ;  he  could  not. 

He  stopped  at  Frankfort,  and,  taking  a  droschke, 
drove  to  a  hotel  in  the  rain.  Then  the  thought  of 
stopping  seemed  intolerable  ;  he  drove  back  again 
to  the  station  ;  in  a  last  revolt  against  his  powerless- 
ness,  he  wrote  a  hasty  telegram  proffering  aid, 
wrhich  he  sent  to  her  in  America  ;  resolved,  after 
that,  to  resign  himself  to  all  things.  When  he  got 


GUERNDALE.  343 

to  Mayence,  the  rain  was  breaking  away  in  great 
bronzed  clouds  ;  suddenly  he  bethought  himself  of 
his  walk  of  four  years  before.  He  could  do  nothing 
better  while  waiting  for  an  answer,  if  answer  there 
should  be.  So  he  bought  a  knapsack  ;  and  hastily 
putting  a  few  things  into  it,  he  started  on  foot  down 
the  Rhine. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

"  L'espeVance  est  la  plus  grande  de  nos  folies.  Cela  bien  compris,  tout  ce  qui 
arrive  d'heureux  surprend.  Dans  cette  prison  nommee  la  vie,  d'ou  nous  partons, 
les  uns  apres  les  autres,  pour  alter  a  la  mort.  il  ne  faut  compter  sur  aucune  fleur. 
Des  lors  la  plus  petite  feuille  rejouit  la  vue,  et  le  coeur  en  sait  grd  a  la  puissance 
qui  a  permis  qu'elle  se  rencontrSt  sous  nos  pas." — A.  DE  ViGNY. 

AT  about  eleven  the  next  morning  Guy  came  to 
a  little  inn,  standing  in  a  vineyard,  near  the 
hill  of  Rheinstein  ;  and,  entering  the  garden,  un- 
slinging  his  knapsack  and  putting  it  on  a  table,  he 
sat  down,  called  for  a  schoppen  of  wine,  and  looked 
vacantly  across  the  river.  A  man  was  sitting  at  the 
next  table,  smoking  a  cigar ;  and  Guy  watched  the 
smoke-rings  curl  from  his  lips,  as  he  also  looked 
vacantly  across  the  river.  His  face  was  thus  turned 
away,  so  that  Guy  watched  him  for  some  minutes 
before  he  rose  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"Norton  Randolph  !" 

"  Hallo,  Guy  ! "  said  the  other  quietly.  "  So 
you  have  come  ?  I  told  you  that  you  would,  you 
know." 

Guy,  overcome  with  amazement,  was  silent  for  a 
minute.  Randolph  went  on,  calmly  smoking. 

"  What  a  wonderful  chance  !  How  did  you  come 
here  ? " 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  how  did  you  come  here?" 


GUERNDALE.  345 

laughed  Randolph.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  I,  too, 
was  not  surprised,  when  I  saw  you  come  in  ?  But  I 
knew  you  would  come  " 

"  You  saw  me  come  in  ?  Why  did  you  not 
speak  ? " 

"  Why  should  I  speak  ?  I  did  not  know  that  you 
wished  to  see  me.  You  did  not,  four  years  ago,  at 
Lucerne." 

"  You  saw  me  there  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  boy." 

"  And  did  not  speak  ?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason.  You  evidently  wished  to 
avoid  me." 

Guy  was  silent  again. 

"  But  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  dear  old  fellow,  all 
the  same,"  cried  Norton  ;  and  he  gave  his  hand  a 
strong  grip.  "  Now  you  have  come,  as  I  told  you, 
and  we  can  travel  together  " 

Guy  changed  color  a  little,  and  began  to  speak, 
rather  hastily.  "What's  the  news,  old  fellow? 
Where  have  you  been  —  in  America?  tell  me." 
Guy's  voice  was  a  little  uncertain  ;  he  was  tired  with 
a  long  walk  ;  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say  and 
turned  his  eyes  away,  nervously. 

"  Where's  the  waiter  ?  Damn  that  waiter  ! "  broke 
in  Randolph,  with  unnecessary  vehemence.  "  Ex 
cuse  me  a  moment,  till  I  go  and  get  that  waiter,  and 
a  bottle  of  wine  " And  Randolph  walked  hur 
riedly  off  to  the  inn. 

Guy  looked  across  the  river  to  the  sunny  bank 
opposite,  and  saw  the  rich,  brown  light,  falling  on 
the  vineyards.  The  view  grew  blurred,  and  wavered 


346  GUERNDALE. 

a  little  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  got  up,  and,  forgetting 
Randolph,  walked  nervously  about  the  garden.  It 
must  be  time  for  her  to  have  received  his  telegram  ; 
he  hoped  she  would  answer.  After  all,  what  could 
she  say  ?  His  offer  was  but  an  empty  condolence. 
He  wondered  where  Symonds  was.  If  he  only 
knew,  he  might  persuade  him— he  might  perhaps 
help  in  some  wray 

"Hallo,  Guy!"  shouted  Randolph  after  him. 
"  I  found  them,  at  last.  The  servants  are  pages  to 
King  Barbarossa,  I  fancy  ;  but  here  is  a  bottle  of 
wine,  and  I  think  it  is  good.  It  is  Assmannshau- 
ser." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  drink  in  the  middle  of  the  after 
noon,"  said  Guy  with  a  laugh. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  boy.  All  times  are  alike  for 
good  wine.  Pull  up,  and  sit  down,  and  look  at  the 
world  through  a  wine  glass.  Claude  Lorraine's  is 
nothing  to  it,  for  putting  on  a  gloss.  Sit  down,  sit 
down,  let  us  have  rest  from  our  labors." 

"  Lazy  as  ever  ?" 

"  Better  to  sit  than  to  stand  ;  better  to  lie  down 
than  to  sit ;  better  to  be  dead  than  either ;  says  the 
wise  Hindoo." 

"  Gloomy  as  ever  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  try  not  to  cry  at  the  world  because  I 
can't  get  what  I  want ;  still,  I  am  pretty  sure  that 
every  man  who  shoots  himself  has  good  enough  rea 
sons  for  it.  The  only  doubt  is  whether  he  does  it 
for  the  right  ones." 

"  Cynical  as  ever  ?  " 

"  Hereditary  trait,  my  boy.     It  is  recorded  of  my 


GUERNDALE.  347 

orthodox  Calvinist  grandfather,  that  the  harder  his 
schoolmaster  whipped  him  the  louder  he  laughed — 
thereby,  perhaps,  redoubling  the  anger  of  the  peda 
gogue.  The  less  I  see  that  is  agreeable,  the  broader 
I  grin.  Perhaps  the  Avorld  treats  a  man  all  the 
worse  for  it ;  but  I  can't  help  that." 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  why  you  don't  make  a 
book,  utterer  of  bad  aphorisms." 

"  Because  the  aphorisms  are  bad.  But  tell  me, 
what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  these  last 
years  ? " 

"  Oh,  I've  been  at  Freiberg,  studying.  And 
you  ? " 

"  Well ;  I  have  been  doing  very  little  with  myself. 
I  never  do  make  very  much  of  that  article.  As  a 
grntleman,  I  cannot  but  feel  a  little  the  falsity  of 
my  position  in  this  world.  Still,  I  have  escaped  the 
toils  of  matrimony,  thereby  doing  my  little  best 
toward  diminishing  the  evils  of  this  life.  Just 
now,  I  am  walking  down  the  Rhine  on  a  tasting- 
trip.  Yes,"  he  added,  seeing  Guy's  puzzled  look, 
"  a  tasting-trip.  I  concluded  that  my  taste  in  Rhine 
wines  was  defective.  So,  I  am  walking  down  the 
river ;  and  at  every  vineyard  I  stop  and  have  a  bot 
tle." 

Guy  looked  at  Randolph  to  see  if  he  was  quizzing 
him  ;  the  old  twinkle  was  in  his  eyes.  "  And  where 
do  you  go  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  deuce  we  shall  go ,"  said 
Randolph,  meditatively.  "  I  want  variety  ;  and  had 
thought  of  going  to  Tiflis.  Then  a  fellow  I  know  is 
getting  up  a  North  Pole  expedition  at  his  own  ex- 


348  GUERNDALE. 

pense  ;  and  he  gave  me  a  -bid  to  join  him.  But  I 
object  to  cold  and  darkness  and  bad  grub.  I  like 
excitement  ;  but  I  want  to  take  it  comfortably. 
Now,  there  is  Timbuctoo — the  last  European  who 
saw  that  city  escaped  with  what  remained  to  him  of 
his  life  in  '47.  Timbuctoo,  certainly,  has  its  charms. 
Where  shall  we  go  ?  You  decide,  most  inge 
nious  Don,  and  I  will  be  your  trusty  Sancho." 

"  Where  shall  u>e  go  ?  Why,  I  must  go  back  to 
America  " 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  fellow,  not  so  fast ;  don't  do 
that.  The  last  thing  I  heard,  there,  was  a  salvo  of 
artillery  announcing  the  election  of  our  old  friend 
Hackett  to  Congress,  and  he  had  won  the  ballot  by 
proving  that  his  chief  opponent  had  maintained  im 
proper  relations  with  his  parlor-maid.  Hackett  is 
quite  the  man ;  he  has  come  out  as  a  blooming 
infid  ^  is.  president  of  a  society  for  erecting  a 
monu  .^nt  to  Pontius  Pilate,  and  goes  to  and  fro 
telling  his  constituents  that  there  is  no  such  place 
as  hell.  By  way  of  proving  it,  they  send  him  to 
Congress." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  Switzerland  ? "  said  Guy. 
"  I  might  almost  like  to  do  that  with  you  ;  I  should 
like  to  see  the  Matterhorn  again." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  speak  of  that  infernal 
mountain.  Often  as  I  have  seen  it,  it  always  re 
minds  me  unpleasantly  of  the  Lord,  Hackett  to  the 
contrary,  notwithstanding.  No,  no  ;  I  want  some 
place  where  life  is  easy,  and  the  air  is  hot  and  lazy 
and  unsuitable  for  the  propounding  of  ultramun 
dane  conundrums,  and  people  live  and  breed  and 


GUERNDALE.  349 

die  with  equal  indifference,  and  there  is  nothing  in 
the  world  or,  at  all  events,  out  of  it,  to  think  of. 
Now  Bulgaria  is  a  fine  country.  I  met  a  fellow  the 
other  day — Canaster,  you  knew  him — who  was  go 
ing  down  to  take  a  look  at  the  seat  of  war.  He  had 
lots  of  letters  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  was 
going  to  be  a  great  swell  in  the  Russian  headquar 
ters  as  the  son  of  a  Whig  duke.  He'd  put  us  up  to 
things,  and  we  might  take  a  look  at  the  fighting. 
Do  you  know,  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  should 
like  to  see  some  fighting."  And  Randolph  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  cut  his  cigar. 

"  I  once  saw  a  dog- fight  in  a  barn,"  he  added,  med 
itatively.  "  I  didn't  like  it  very  much.  But  the 
dogs  only  fought  for  a  bone  ;  and  down  there  they 
are  fighting  for  the  Christian  religion.  At  least,  so 
the  Czar  says.  I  tell  you  what,  Guy,  that's  n^v  half 
a  bad  idea !  Let's  turn  crusaders !  The  •  -dern 
paladin,  if  that's  the  proper  name  and  all  u.  c  sort 
of  thing.  We'll  be  the  heroes  of  a  new  Chanson  de 
Roland.  Who  says  romance  is  out  of  date  ? " 

"  What  a  whimsical  old  idiot  you  are  !  "  said  Guy, 
with  a  smile  ;  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand,'  cor 
dially.  "  No,  no.  I  can't  go.  It  is  awfully  kind  of 
you  to  want  me  with  you  ;  but  really,  I  must  go 
back  to  America." 

"Ah  well,  my  preux  chevalier;  perhaps  it  is  as 
well  you  should  go  back  to  the  lists  of  fashion  and 
the  listlessness  of  society.  You  haven't  been  quite 
enough  of  a  carpet-knight  ;  I  have  been  too  much 
of  one,  and  I  am  tired  of  the  tapis,  and  what  is 
on  it  as  well.  Apropos  of  gossip,  I  hear  your  old 


350  GUERNDALE. 

friend  Symonds  has  got  into  a  devilish  disagreeable 
row." 

Guy  was  silent. 

"  Frankly,  I  used  to  wonder  at  your  fondness  for 
that  man.  If  there  was  ever  a  man  with  the  breed 
ing  of  a  gentleman  and  the  nature  of  a  cad,  it  was 
he." 

Randolph  spoke  rather  strongly ;  but  Guy  went 
on  smoking.  For  once  he  did  not  answer  to  defend 
his  friend. 

"  How  Miss  Bonnymort  ever  could  have  married 
him,  I  could  never  see.  She  seemed  a  very  nice 
girl.  Poor  woman,  I  suppose  she  is  wretched  enough 
now  "- 

"  She  thought  he  was  all  that  was  fine  and  noble 

and  brave — as  we  all  did," began  Guy,  almost 

angrily  ;  but  his  voice  grew  a  little  husky  and  he 
finished  with  a  glass  of  wine. 

Then  there  was  a  long  silence  between  them. 
Evidently,  Guy  would  say  nothing  more  ;  and  Ran 
dolph  watched  him  gravely,  as  they  sat  smoking  in 
the  dusk.  Then  he  got  up,  resting  his  hand  lightly 
on  Guy's  shoulders,  "  Come,  old  fellow,  it  is  getting 
dark  ;  we  must  find  an  inn."  And  they  walked 
back  in  the  evening  to  Bingen. 

The  next  day,  Randolph  and  Guy  took  a  long 
walk  among  the  hills  above  the  river ;  and  it  seemed 
to  Guy  that  his  friend  had  never  been  so  charming 
a  companion.  Every  weed  of  a  whim,  conceit,  or 
quaint  opinion  that  had  sprung  up  in  his  idle  mind 
for  the  last  year,  he  brought  forth  and  served  in  a 
sort  of  salad  for  Guy's  amusement.  And  with  all 


GUERNDALE.  35 1 

his  raillery  and  cynicism,  there  was  a  delicate  tact 
of  manner  which  made  his  hearer  laugh  unwound- 
ed.  It  even  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  kinder 
undertone  in  Randolph's  mood  than  he  had  known 
of  yore.  He  spoke  little  of  present  or  personal  mat 
ters,  far  less  did  he  mention  Symonds  again  ;  and 
many  a  time  Guy  found  himself  laughing  more 
cheerily  than  he  knew.  After  all,  it  is  so  easy  to 
laugh  ;  so  pleasant  a  thing,  even  if  it  be  with  a 
catching  of  breath  now  and  then. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  two  came 
out  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  above  the  valley  of  the 
Nahe.  There  is  a  little  village,  and  a  church,  upon 
the  sunny  bit  of  land  between  the  rivers ;  and 
coming  to  a  grassy  bank,  they  sat  down  to  rest ;  or 
rather,  Randolph  did  ;  and  Guy  joined  him,  laugh 
ing  at  his  laziness.  Yes,  said  Norton,  he  supposed 
that  he  was  lazy.  American  fashion,  he  intended  to 
assume  a  new  coat  of  arms,  to  be  borne  by  his  de 
scendants.  He  had  adopted  argent,  a  Randolph  (to  be 
represented  by  an  Indian  brave  ;  "  for  you  know," 
said  he,  "we  claim  descent  from  Pocahontas")  aztir, 
regardant,  smoking  a  pipe  of  peace.  Supporters  :  dexter, 
a  Randolph  recumbent ;  sinister,  a  Randolph  couchant ; 
all  of  the  second.  Crest :  a  Randolph  dormant,  bearing 
a  mark  of  interrogation.  Motto :  Born  tired.  "  I 
think,"  said  Randolph,  "with  the  expressions  of  the 
various  Randolphs  properly  ennuye,  that  will  about 
fmit."  Then  Guy  smiled  a  little,  and  Randolph 
wejrit  on,  poking  the  moss  off  an  old  tombstone  with 
his  cane.  Fie  was  gradually  bringing  out  an  epi 
taph  which  seemed  to  be  in  Italian.  Randolph 


352  GUERNDALE. 

uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  ;  and,  after  scrap- 
ing  away  a  little  more  of  the  moss,  bent  down  and 
read  the  line  : 

"  -j-  Poco  amato  -(-  motto  amai  -J-  pace  ho.  -f-  " 

"  How  strange  !  "  muttered  Randolph.  "What  an 
odd  little  line  to  be  mouldering  away  up  here  behind 
the  moss  ! "  And  pulling  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  he 
lay  back  and  looked  at  the  sky.  His  mood  had 
changed,  and  he  said  nothing  for  a  long  time,  but 
murmured  the  line  over  to  himself.  "  I  want  to 
learn  it  by  heart,"  said  he.  "  It  is  a  queer,  soft  bit 
of  Italian  to  find  up  here  under  the  gray  German 
sky.  I  wonder  who  the  old  boy  was  (for  he  was  a 
boy)  who  wrote  it  and  wanted  it  put  on  his  tomb. 
Poor  fellow  !  he  probably  was  in  exile  up  here,  and, 
for  some  reason  could  not  go  home  to  die.  How  he 
must  have  walked  along  by  the  river  of  an  after 
noon,  and  watched  the  sunlight  over  on  the  brown 
vineyards,  and  the  shadows  come  creeping  up  from 
below  ;  and  then  he  would  look  to  the  south  and 
long  for  Italy — or  for  some  one  in  Italy,  more  likely. 
The  poet  (for  he  was  a  poet)  must  have  gone  pretty 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  the  world  to  write  like  that. 
There  are  more  things  one  can  love  than  a  woman, 
and  vainly." 

"  Set  not  your  heart  on  the  things  of  this  world  "- 
"And  you  will  be  a  pessimist;  for  then  you  set 
your  heart  on  things  you  cannot  find  in  this  world. 
And  they  say  that  you  and  I  have  no  other.  Bah  ! 
no — I  am  not  a  pessimist.  The  world  is  jolly 
enough  as  long  as  you  like  it.  Pessimist  ?  No. 


GUERNDALE.  353 

my  boy.  Life  is  too  sweet,  the  world  is  too  charm 
ing  a  jumble  for  that.  It  is  like  the  dream  of  a 
drunken  god,  who  has  slunk  away  from  some  stupid 
conversazione  of  the  divine  society,  and  has  fallen 
asleep  upon  a  single  star  ;  and  he  does  not  even 
know  himself  that  he  is  creating  all  that  he  dreams. 
And  the  vision  is  so  sweetly  fantastic,  so  wildly  gay, 
and  often  even,  by  some  chance,  so  reasonable,  so 
consistent — for  instance,  the  Iliad,  Moses,  Napoleon, 
gunpowder,  Potiphar's  wife,  the  United  States  Con 
gress,  Cora  Pearl,  the  battle  of  Marathon,  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  the  game  of  whist,  Shakespeare,  lib 
erty,  are  all  separate  happy  thoughts  in  the  dream 
of  creation  of  this  drunken  god.  But  it  will  soon 
be  over,  and  the  god  awakes,  and  rubs  his  heavy 
eyes,  and  grins.  And  all  our  world  has  gone  into 
nothing.  It  has  never  existed  at  all." 

"John  Strang  would  say  that  you  were  a  fool,  and 
that  your  folly  was  not  even  original,"  delicately 
suggested  Guy. 

"What  is  so  rare  as  true  folly  ?  Humbugs,  asses, 
and  idiots  are  common  enough,  but  true  folly  is  as 
rare  as  true  wisdom  ;  in  fact,  it  is  a  kind  of  madness 
resembling  wisdom — wisdom  that  has  gone  mad  for 
knowing  all  things — wisdom  that  has  found  out  too 
much,  and  gone  mad  as  the  best  refuge  possible 
under  the  circumstances.  The  ancients  were  wise  ; 
they  honored  madmen  as  prophets ;  we  hold  all 
prophets  madmen.  Do  you  remember  that  delight 
ful  fellow  up  in  your  old  village  at  home — Solomon 
Bung  ?  By  Jove,  I  wish  we  had  him  with  us  !  What 
a  dear  old  chap  he  was  !  And  how  he  wou^d  enjoy 


354  GUERNDALE. 

rambling  idly  with  us  over  Europe,  and  looking  at 
the  carcasses  of  dead  and  gone  pomps  and  vanities  ! 
He  would  be  as  picturesque  a  figure  over  here,  in 
his  mental  attitude  at  least,  as  is  Fortuny's  shepherd, 
sitting  and  piping  lazily  upon  the  fallen  column  of 
an  old  Greek  temple.  Well,  I  remember  talking 
with  him,  one  summer's  day,  as  he  sat  fishing  by  the 
old  pond  near  your  house.  He  was  telling  me  the 
history  of  some  old  crony  of  his,  and  talking  of  the 
lot  in  life  he  had,  and  making  criticisms  of  life  and 
society  by  the  way. 

"'Wa'al,  you  see,' said  he,  'old  Sam  Orcutt,  he 
never  had  no  kind  o'  luck.  An'  he  was  a  nice  man, 
too.  Fust  he  travelled  all  roun'  the  world  on  a  ship, 
an'  meantime  he  went  an'  married  Sue  as  was  Sue 
Slater,  daughter  of  old  Slater  as  used  to  drive  the 
stage.  But  his  employers,  they  made  all  the  money  ; 
for  old  Sam,  he  never  had  no  luck  at  all  ;  and  finally, 
he  settled  down  an'  kep'  the  store  at  South  Chat 
ham.  An'  he  lived  nigh  onto  thirty  years  at  South 
Chatham,  an'  then  he  struck  a  streak  of  luck  an' 
died.'  " 

"'You  seem  to  take  a  dark  view  of  life,  Mr. 
Bung,'  said  I. 

"  'Wa'al,'  said  he,  '  I  dunno.  P'raps  life  wouldn't 
be  so  bad,  ef  there  warn't  so  many  darned  fools 
roun'.  An'  as  for  this  world,  I  suppose  the  Lord 
might  'a'  made  a  wuss  one  ;  but,  thank  God,  He 
never  tried.' " 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"  Elle  aurait  pleur^,  si  sa  main, 
Sur  son  coeur  froidement  posde, 
Eut  jamais,  de  1'argile  humain, 
Send  la  celeste  rosee. 
Elle  aurait  aim^,  si  1'orgueil, 
Pareil  a  la  larape  inutile 
Qu'on  allume  pres  d'un  cercueil, 
N'eut  veille^  sur  son  coeur  sterile, 
Elle  est  morte  ;  et  n'a  point  vec 
Elle  faisait  semblant  de  vivrc  ; 
De  sa  main  est  tomW  le  livre 
Dans  lequel  elle  n'a  rien  lu." — A.  DE  MUSSET. 

THERE  is  a  little  castle  on  the  river  below  Bin- 
gen.  It  lies  on  the  bosky  brow  of  a  hill, 
high  up  above  the  Rhine  ;  and  below  you  may  see, 
from  its  weed-grown  tei-race,  the  dusky  forms  of  the 
Seven  Mountains ;  and  above,  the  straight  blue 
river.  For  it  is  blue,  from  that  height.  And  year 
by  year,  the  vines  twine  closer  about  the  old,  worn 
stones  ;  and  the  moss  gains  strength  and  greenness 
as  the  rust  grows  redder  on  the  gates.  The  people 
who  lived  there  are  forgotten  ;  their  own  descend 
ants  do  not  know  of  the  old  Stammschloss  ;  they  are 
obsolete  and  gone.  Perhaps  their  grandchildren 
drive  droschkes,  or  travel  for  German  woollen  mills, 
or  shoulder  needle-guns  in  the  ranks  of  the  Prussian 


356  GUERNDALE. 

army.  Only  one  daughter,  being  a  poor  girl,  made 
a  mesalliance,  and  was  duly  cursed  for  it,  in  the  last 
century,  with  a  Frankfort  Jew  ;  and  her  descendants 
are  well  known  in  places  where  the  pulse  of  the 
modern  world  beats  thickest.  But  even  they  have 
lost  sight  of  the  old  tower  ;  they  no  longer  spin  their 
cables  across  the  river  to  net  the  ships  that  go  by,  or 
descend  the  precipitous  slopes  of  the  Rhine  valley 
to  plunder  the  passing  traveller.  No  ;  they  are 
scattered  far  away  from  the  ruined  castle  ;  but  they 
are  great  on  loans  and  discounts  ;  count  their  noses, 
and  you  would  find  a  syndicate  to  fund  a  national 
debt ;  generous  noses,  generous  only  as  to  their 
noses,  they  ply  their  traffic  at  board  and  bourse,  and 
would  turn  up  their  noses,  if  it  were  possible,  in 
scorn,  at  the  franker  modes  of  plunder  of  the  fore 
fathers  of  that  maiden,  their  ancestress,  who  de 
meaned  herself,  and  now  lies  dead  and  buried  in  a 
silver  casket — God  rest  her  soul,  if  there  be  a  God, 
and  she  have  one. 

Well !  Here,  at  the  base  of  this  old  ruin,  for  it  was 
a  ruin,  sat  Norton  Randolph.  This  ingenious  citi 
zen  of  a  great  republic  looked  well  by  a  ruin  ;  his 
blue  cigarette-smoke  did  not  shake  the  old  stones, 
and  he  lay  idly  by  them,  looking  appreciatively  at 
the  world,  or  such  part  of  it  as  was  spread  at  his 
feet.  Guy  was  with  him  ;  but  Randolph  was  dis 
tinctly  thoughtful,  almost  abstracted — a  rare  thing 
for  him  whose  mind  was  always  open  for  the 
thoughts  and  doings  of  his  friends,  little  as  he 
seemed  to  care  for  his  own.  " '  Motto  amai—poco 
amato — pace  ho,'"  he  muttered,  after  a  long  silence. 


GUERNDALE.  357 

"  That  epitaph  seems  to  run  in  your  mind,"  said 
Guy. 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  Guy,  how  our  modern 
ethics  are  really  going  to  wear.  I  am  curious  to  see 
a  fellow,  born  and  bred  on  Spencer  and  science,  aux 
prises  with  them,  under  a  strong  emotion.  •  Every 
strong  will  must  have  some  check  or  motive,  just  as 
a  steam-engine  has  a  governor,  or  fly-wheel.  Now 
our  neat  utilitarian,  society  canons,  our  tangible, 
every-day  aims  may  work  beautifully  for  ninety- 
nine  ;  but  what  is  to  become  of  number  one  hun 
dred  ?  Take  a  fellow  of  strong  will  and  imagina 
tion,  ardently  in  love,  for  instance.  He  is  quite  out 
of  place,  you  know,  in  our  play  at  life." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Guy,  "that  you  talk  a 
good  deal  about  the  things  you  jeer  at." 

"•I  don't  jeer  at  things;  the  world  does.  Cer 
vantes  wrote  the  Don  Quixote  of  chivalry  ;  who  is 
to  write  the  Don  Quixote  of  love  ?  Zola,  perhaps. 
Heigho  ;  love  was  the  last  good  motive  left  us. 
Guy,  my  boy,"  Randolph  went  on,  changing  the 
crossing  of  his  legs,  "  don't  go  back  to  America." 

"  I  must." 

"  Nonsense.  You  won't  find  what  you  want,  if 
you  do.  Immortality  is  the  dream  of  an  egoist 
fool ;  love  is  a  fancy,  now  growing  obsolete  ;  power 
is  impossible  in  a  free  country,  except  the  power  of 
corruption  ;  money  is  contemptible.  None  of  them 
will  satisfy  you  just  now.  Be  sensible.  The  past  is 

gone  ;  the  future  does  not  exist ;  the  present • 

well,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  about  the  present  is 
to  sit  over  here  and  think  about  it.  Come  along 


358  GUERNDALE. 

with  me,  old  fellow,  down  the  Danube,  and  we'll 
talk  it  over.  We'll  go  and  fight  the  paynims,  my 
boy  !  Think  of  that !  We'll  serve  under  the  banner 
of  the  cross,  and  polish  off  the  infidels  ! " 

"  I  ought  to  go  America." 

"  Ought  ! " 

"  Norton,  if  I  did  not  know  you  never  said  what 
you  meant — if  you  were  not — ah  ! "  said  Guy,  im 
patiently.  "  I  am  tired  of  hearing  this  groaning, 
this  complaining,  this  weakness  made  a  mode  by 
Musset  and  Heine.  Suppose  their  worst ;  and  that  we 
do  believe  in  nothing,  and  there  is  no  God  to  tell 
us  '  Be  a  good  boy  and  you  shall  have  so  and  so,'— 
have  we  not  all  that  half  the  great  men  of  the  world's 
history  have  had  ?  Did  those  poor,  so-called  benight 
ed  atheists  of  Rome  or  Greece  sit  down  and  whine 
about  the  world  ?  Is  there  no  merit  in  bravery  ? 
And  are  we  worse  off  than  they  ?  Suppose  we  do 
not  know  what  is  coming  ?  If  a  clock  knew  that  it 
was  to  be  destroyed  the  next  moment,  would  it  not 
go  on  striking  the  hours  until  that  instant  arrived  ? 
Whatever  happens,  cannot  we  go  on  striking  our 
hour  ?  I  am  weary  of  this  complaining  that  the 
gods  have  not  thrown  light  enough  on  our  path.  Is 
there  one  moment  in  life  when  a  noble  soul  does 
not  clearly  know  which  action  lies  before  it  to  be 
done  ?  And  even  if  the  impulses  of  a  noble  soul 
can  err,  even  if  they  are  not  inspired,  then  all  of  it 
will  come  to  an  end  at  death ;  and  thank  God  that  it 
will.  You  men  who  cry  because  you  cannot  believe 
what  a  priest  tells  you  of  Christ :  was  poor  Greek 
Sophocles  a  Christian  when  he  prayed  that  his  lot 


GUERNDALE.  359 

might  lead  him  '  in  the  path  of  holy  innocence  of 
word  and  deed,  the  path  which  august  laws  ordain, 
laws  that  in  the  highest  empyrean  have  their  birth, 
of  which  Heaven  is  the  father  alone  ;  neither  did 
the  race  of  men  beget  them,  nor  shall  oblivion  ever 
put  them  to  sleep  ;  for  the  power  of  GOD  is  mighty 
in  them,  and  groweth  riot  old.'  Grant  that  we 
know  not  that  those  laws  are  true — what  merit  in 
our  courage  if  we  did  ?  Let  us  act  as  if  they  were 
true.  And  if  we  do  think  falsely,  we  shall  die  nobly 
and  die  forever." 

Randolph  was  silent. 

"Heaven  knows,"  added  Guy,  with  a  sigh,  "the 
doubts  of  all  these  men  are  too  much  like  our  own 
for  us  to  blame  them.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  am 
always  free  from  them." 

For  once,  Randolph  made  no  answer  ;  but  an  hour 
afterward,  as  they  were  walking  home,  he  spoke. 

"Guy,"  he  said  gravely,  "we  have  talked,  in  our 
time,  badinage  and  nonsense  enough.  I  am  not 
sure  that  you  will  remember,  among  other  things, 
my  once  giving  you  my  views  on  peaches  a  quinze 
francs?  Well,  I  was  thinking  of  that  when  I  spoke, 
this  afternoon,  and  of  a  fellow  that  I  met  once,  in 
the  far  East,  and  knew  quite  well.  In  fact,  it  was 
he  that  made  the  text  for  my  sermon.  Poor  little 
fool,  he  fell  in  love,  madly,  passionately,  wildly  in 
love,  at  nineteen,  with  a  girl,  beautiful,  gay,  fash 
ionable,  and  a  year  older.  He  was  just  the  roman 
tic,  enthusiastic  youth,  and  withal  wilful  and  clear 
headed,  whose  head  could  once  be  led  away  by  his 
heart.  How  she  laughed  at  him  !  By  Jove,  how  she 


360  GUERNDALE. 

did  laugh  at  him  !  Well,  the  poor  boy  was  sensitive 
and  proud,  but  older  than  he  seemed,  and  a  strong 
enough  character  in  some  respects  ;  and  he  caught 
her  unlucky  trick  of  laughing ;  and  the  damned 
habit  stuck  to  him.  As  Heine  says,  a  man  can  go 
laughing  away,  stuck  deep  in  the  heart,  and  go  on 
laughing  and  trallera — trallera-la-la — and  not  even 
know  that  he  is  stuck  deep  in  the  heart — and  tral- 

lera-la,  la-la,  la-la Well,  this  one  was  a  man  of 

the  world,  not  a  passionate  shepherd,  nor  a  heavy 
villain  ;  so  he  never  did  anything  very  remarkable, 
but  went  on  laughing.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  he 
got  over  caring  for  her.  I  suppose  she  would  take 
him  now,  if  he  came  back.  I  doubt  not,  she  has 
grown  tired  of  her  throne  of  fashion,  at  one-or-two- 
and-thirty.  But  she  was  a  peche  a  quinze  francs. 
Everybody  in  general  was  so  taken  up  with  admiring 
her,  that  nobody  in  particular  thought  of  loving  her. 
She  was  too  perfect  a  peach  for  eating  ;  and  now 
the  show  is  nearly  over,  and  the  doors  of  the  fair  are 
closed  to  her,  and  fresher,  more  fragrant  peaches 
have  taken  her  place  in  the  stalls  ;  and  perhaps  the 
beautiful  girl  is  not  a  happy  woman. 

"  '  Elle  est  morte  ;  et  n'a  point  vecu. 
De  sa  main  est  tombe  le  livre 
Dans  lequel  elle  n'a  rien  lu.' 

"  Perhaps  the  little  boy  who  hankered  after  her 
might  carry  her  off  now,  if  he  chose  to  try.  But  he 
does  not  care  for  her  now  ;  and  yet  he  cannot  forget 
her,  and  he  remembers  her  as  she  was  once,  and  the 
picture  will  not  leave  his  mind  ;  and  he  could  not 


GUERNDALE.  361 

seriously  make  love  to  her,  for  he  has  caught  her 
old  trick  of  laughing  ;  and  yet  he  does  not  particu 
larly  see  the  use  of  caring  for  anything  else.  So  he 
roams  about  the  world  ;  for  he  has  money  enough, 
poor  devil,  to  go  to  the  devil  with,  only  he  still 
keeps  an  old  Puritan  prejudice  against  the  gentle 
man  in  question.  And  she  is  pointed  out  as  Miss 
So-and-So,  who  used  to  be  the  great  belle  ;  and  her 
temper  is  a  little  dubious,  and  she  uses  rouge." 
Randolph  delivered  all  this  rapidly,  like  a  lesson, 
learned  by  heart ;  then  he  went  on,  more  naturally 
"  Oh,  well,  it's  no  use,  as  old  Sol  Bung  used  to  say. 
Let's  go  down  and  have  a  smoke — eras  ingens — and 
— and  damn  the  rest  of  it." 

Guy  shook  his  head,  and  Randolph  went  on,  talk 
ing  carelessly,  urging  him  to  spend  the  summer  with 
him  in  Europe.  Randolph,  having  touched  Guy 
once,  had  seen  that  he  did  not  wish  to  talk  with  him 
of  certain  things  ;  so  he  never  again  referred  to  Sy- 
monds.  But  he  told  me,  long  after,  that  his  meet 
ing  Guy  was  not  such  a  curious  coincidence  as  it 
seemed,  as  he  had  tracked  him  all  the  way  from 
Freiberg,  where  he  had  arrived  a  day  too  late. 

"Old  fellow,"  Randolph  went  on,  "you  aren't  fit 
to  go  back  to  \vork  now.  You  haven't  had  fun 
enough  this  four  years.  Take  pity  on  a  lonely 
friend,  and  wait  till  the  autumn.  We'll  have  a  jolly 
old  roving  summer  together."  So  he  talked  hastily, 
all  the  way  back,  while  Guy  was  silent.  Coming 
down  through  the  wood  path,  Randolph  spoke  again 
of  the  verse  he  had  found,  which  he  said  was  worth  a 
bushel  of  Swinburne:  Molto  amai — -poco  amato — pace  ho. 
16 


362  GUERNDALE. 

A  steamer  was  passing  below  them  on  the  river  : 
few  people  were  on  the  deck,  but  Randolph  swore 
he  could  smell  the  Bass's  ale  as  the  bottles  were  un 
corked  in  the  cabin.  Below  them,  down  the  river, 
they  saw  the  smoke  of  some  new  foundries. 

Guy,  too,  thought  much  of  the  little  Italian  verse 
as  he  walked  along  to  his  banker's.  He  remembered 
with  wonder  his  long  speech  to  Norton  in  the  after 
noon  ;  the  spirit  which  prompted  it  seemed  to  have 
left  him,  and  his  doubts  were  crowding  back.  What 
a  kind,  pleasant  fellow  Randolph  was  !  Still,  he  was 
glad  he  had  kept  his  secret.  It  was  better  that  he 
should  always  do  so.  He  began  to  wonder  a  little 
about  Randolph  himself  ;  but  this  thought  was  driven 
from  his  mind  by  a  telegram  he  found  at  the  banker's. 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  message  ;  but  please  do  not  come 
back.  A.  B.  SYMONDS." 


Book 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

"  I>e  monde,  une  sottise  !  Ah  !  la  belle  sottise  pourtant  !  C'est,  selon  quelques 
habitants  de  Malabar,  une  des  soixante-quatorze  comedies  dont  1'Eternel  s'amuse." 
—  DIDKROT. 

IT  is  less  than  a  month  after  their  walk  on  the 
Rhine,  and  Guy  and  Norton  are  sitting  at  a 
littl  3  round  table  on  the  Chaussee  in  Bucharest. 
The  year  is  the  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-sev 
enth  of  our  Lord  ;  and,  although  only  the  last  week 
in  May,  the  fierce  Roumanian  summer  has  already 
begun.  The  day  has  been  intensely  hot,  and  the 
world  only  awakes  with  the  approach  of  night. 
Randolph's  fair  face  is  already  of  a  bright  bronze, 
against  which  his  long  moustaches  gleam  golden  ; 
attired  in  a  light  lounging  suit,  he  sits  drinking  the 
lime-juice  and  water,  cooled  with  snow,  while  Guy, 
whose  face  is  a  darker  brown,  is  beside  him.  Around 
them,  under  the  rather  ineffectual  shade  of  the  lime- 
trees,  is  a  gay  procession  of  Roumanian  beauty  and 
Russian  valor  ;  these  gallant  officers  doubtless  de 
served  the  fair,  for  they  were  confidently  discounting 
future  bravery,  and  getting  their  deserts  in  advance. 
The  avenue  of  the  Chaussee  is  filled  with  car- 


364  GUERNDALE. 

riages,  bearing  ladies  on  their  evening  drive,  their 
white  muslin  dresses  and  bare  necks  and  shoulders 
shining  pleasantly  in  the  twilight.  The  broad  brows, 
full  lips,  and  handsome  faces  of  this  old  Roman 
race  contrast  curiously  and  favorably  with  the 
long,  white  moustaches,  the  small  eyes,  and  high 
cheek-bones  of  the  Cossacks,  or  the  heavier,  darker 
features  of  the  Russian  moujik.  The  gay  little  city 
is  gayer  than  ever  to-night ;  illuminations  gleam  in 
the  gardens,  strains  of  dance-music  ring  out  into  the 
narrow  streets  ;  the  empty  day  is  over,  and  the  pleas 
ures  of  the  night  have  begun.  Old  and  young,  poor 
and  rich,  moral  and  immoral,  all  seem  equally  to 
be  enjoying  life — a  general  and  delightful  indiffer 
ence  to  everything  between  pitch-and-toss  and  man 
slaughter  pervades  the  populace.  Guy  is  amused, 
and  Randolph,  who  is  always  mildly  entertained  by 
the  world  in  general,  finds  the  world  more  than  ever 
entertaining  to-night. 

Very  few  people  now  remember  that  over  across 
the  river,  to  the  south,  are  Turks.  The  pink  blos 
soms  in  the  garden  are  very  sweet,  the  winds  are 
stilled,  the  dust  lies  quiet  in  the  roads.  Overhead 
the  stars,  large  and  serious,  look  down  upon  the  red 
and  green  lights  of  the  garden.  But  people  do  not 
look  at  them  ;  for  every  woman  in  Bucharest  is  visi 
ble  to-night,  and  their  dark,  round  eyes  are  rounder 
than  ever  with  admiration  of  the  splendor  of  the 
foreign  soldiery.  If  any  woman  can  resist  a  uni 
form,  it  is  not  the  Roumanian.  Here  it  is  a  Cir 
cassian  officer,  lounging  by,  gorgeous  in  light  blue 
with  silver  lacings  and  accoutrements  ;  now  a  group 


GUERNDALE.  365 

of  Montenegrins,  ablaze  with  scarlet  silk  and  gold  ; 
then  a  party  of  sober-clad  Russians,  looking  more 
serious  than  the  brisk  young  Roumanians  :  for  are 
they  not  fighting  for  their  father  Czar  and  the  Holy 
Church  ?  A  Russian  officer  comes  up  to  address 
Randolph,  leaving  his  carriage  at  the  curb,  with  his 
pretty,  somewhat  faded,  young  countess.  Randolph 
goes  up  to  speak  to  her,  and  Guy  hears  her  soft 
musical  voice,  and  pretty  broken  English,  but  makes 
no  move  to  join  them.  So  the  count,  all  complai 
sance,  takes  Randolph's  seat,  and  tells  Guy  of  the 
great  review  of  the  Russian  army  at  Kischcneff, 
when  the  declaration  of  war  was  read  to  the  army 
by  the  bishop  of  the  church  ;  and  how  the  soldiers 
cheered,  in  a  long  hoarse  roar  of  delight ;  while 
Alexander  II.,  the  Peace  Emperor,  sitting  upon  the 
earth,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  burst  into  tears.  It 
will  not  be  a  promenade,  this  war,  he  says ;  for  the 
Turks  believe  in  what  they  fight  for,  as  the  French 
did  not  when  the  Germans  marched  on  Paris  crying 
Fatherland,  and  the  peasant  soldiers  threw  their 
arms  down  before  the  enemy,  and  cried  that  they 
had  left  their  wives  and  children,  that  the  harvest 
was  still  ungathered,  that  they  did  not  wish  to  fight, 
and  the  Comte  de  Paris,  fighting  also  for  an  Emperor 
he  did  not  own,  had  to  beat  them  into  battle  with 
his  sword. 

Guy  and  Randolph  have  come  up  the  Rhine,  and 
walked  through  the  Black  Forest,  and  traced  the 
Danube,  from  the  little  stream  at  Donauworth  to 
Ratisbon.  There  they  found  a  boat ;  and  so  came 
down,  below  the  white  Valhalla,  with  its  marble 


366  GUERNDALE. 

foolery  of  a  foolish  king,  below  the  endless  green 
hills  of  the  Bohemian  Forest,  where  Schiller's  Rob 
bers  lived  and  Consuelo,  to  Passau  ;  and  on  through 
river  scenery  which  dwarfs  the  petty  Rhine,  by  the 
great  marble  convents  and  monasteries,  and  the  old 
city  of  Linz,  perched  above  the  Danube,  with  the 
Austrian  Alps  gleaming  in  the  background  ;  down 
through  the  whirlpool  and  the  rapids,  by  quaint 
little  churches  and  villages  and  old,  forgotten  cas 
tles  ;  by  St.  Michael,  where  the  six  little  clay  hares 
upon  the  roof  of  the  church  still  remain,  to  remind 
the  simple  villagers  of  some  old  winter,  when  the 
hares  ran  over  the  ridgepole  on  the  snow  ;  by  Dur- 
renstein,  where  the  castle  yet  is  seen  below  whose 
windows  Blondel  sang  to  his  caged  master,  Cceur- 
de-Lion  ;  by  the  huge  walls  of  Klosterneuburg  ;  by 
-Vienna  ;  down  through  the  broad  Hungarian  plains, 
where  the  peasant  and  his  six  great  oxen  still  scratch 
the  earth  with  the  forked  stick  of  antiquity  ;  into  the 
Iron  Gate,  which  breasts  the  brown  Danube  waters 
with  its  walls  of  browner  rock  ;  out  of  European 
civilization  into  Belgrade  and  Asia,  even  on  to 
Bucharest.  And  Randolph  has  been  a  very  charm 
ing  companion  to  his  friend,  and  Guy  would  say  that 
he  enjoyed  the  journey  very  much. 

So  it  happened  that  the  two  sat  here,  under  the 
dusty  lime-trees  in  the  park  of  Bucharest  ;  in  this 
careless  little  city  which  laughed  and  drank  and 
made  love  between  t\vo  warring  empires.  On  the 
morrow,  they  were  to  leave  Bucharest  for  the  front, 
if  Lord  John  Canaster  had  gained  permission.  The 
campaign  had  now  fairly  begun  ;  the  Russians  were 


GUERNDALE.  367 

about  to  sow  torpedoes  in  the  Danube,  and  there 
were  rumors  that  they  intended  to  throw  a  pontoon- 
bridge  across  the  river  at  some  point  below.  The  two 
armies  were  about  to  close  ;  and  a  Yankee  skipper, 
pacing  the  deck  of  his  ship  at  anchor  in  the  stream, 
was  even  then  profanely  cursing  because  he  had  been 
compelled  to  leave  his  moorings  before  he  got  his 
cargo  on  board. 

In  front  of  them,  in  a  canvas  theatre,  a  third-rate 
French  company  were  performing  opera-bouffe  ; 
and  the  under-officers  eagerly  spent  their  hard- 
earned  rubles  in  hearing  a  last  laugh  before  they 
left  for  the  war.  Randolph  was  quite  at  home  in 
all  this  scene  ;  as  he  said  laughingly,  he  was  the  vic 
tim  of  democracy,  and  was  out  of  place  at  home, 
where  the  country  was  getting  along  very  well, 
under  the  administration  of  Mr.  Hayes,  and  he  had 
been  as  good  as  told  that  his  services  were  not 
wanted,  in  the  meanest  capacity.  But  for  Guy  it 
was  otherwise  ;  Guy  was  rather  off  his  beat,  Ran 
dolph  said  ;  which  Guy,  also  laughing,  denied,  and 
said  he  was  as  well  there  as  anywhere  else. 

Guy  had  been  to  the  banker's  that  day,  to  see  if 
there  were  no  letter  for  him  from  Lane  ;  for  he  had 
written  to  Lane,  and  asked  him  to  write  what  he 
heard  of  Annie.  But  there  was  none,  and  so  he  sat, 
playing  idly  with  his  locket,  and  listening  vaguely  to 
Randolph,  who  was  using  all  his  powers  to  entertain 
him  and  win  him  over  to  his  own  gayety.  So  sitting, 
Lord  John,  returning  from  Ploiesti,  met  them,  as  he 
had  promised  to  do  when  he  left  them  the  day  before. 

With  him  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  in  the 


368  GUERNDALE. 

uniform  of  a  cavalry  private.  Canaster  had  obtained 
the  required  permission  for  Guy  and  Randolph,  and 
now  desired  to  present  to  them  his  friend,  through 
whose  influence  it  had  been  granted — the  Prince 

T .     He  was  serving  as  a  private  from  preference, 

as  he  said,  and  because,  being  himself  a  diplomat,  it 
was  not  thought  best  for  him  to  be  put  over  men 
who  had  spent  their  lives  in  the  army.  He  made 
this  explanation,  seeing  Randolph  look  curiously 
at  his  coarse  blue  uniform,  gray  overcoat,  and  black 
leather  helmet.  It  seemed  to  Guy  that  Canaster,  too, 
was  a  very  different  fellow  from  the  heavy,  coarse 
man  of  pleasure  he  had  known  years  before  in  Amer 
ica  ;  his  eye  was  brighter  and  more  clear,  some  of 
his  flesh  was  gone,  and  there  was  an  air  of  frankness 
and  determination  about  him  which  became  him 
well. 

The  four  sat  a  long  time,  smoking  and  talking,  un 
der  the  lime-trees  ;  the  prince  burning  with  enthu 
siasm  for  the  war,  Canaster  alert  at  the  prospect  of  a 
fight,  Randolph  suave  and  companionable  as  usual. 
Here  there  was  no  talk  of  horses,  wine,  and  women  ; 
few  stories  were  told  and  no  scandal.  Randolph 
talked  of  the  social  condition  of  Turkey,  of  the  polit 
ical  reasons  for  the  war  ;  Canaster  of  what  he  had 
seen  of  the  front  and  of  the  state  of  the  soldiers ; 

Prince  T of  the  purpose  of    the  Czar  and  the 

hopes  and  loyalty  of  the  army.  The  country  was 
united,  he  said,  for  the  people  all  loved  the  Czar  ; 
even  the  nihilists,  he  said,  were  silent  in  the  com 
mon  danger ;  there  were  many  of  them  in  the  ranks. 
When  they  got  up,  Randolph  hoped  that  he  might 


GUERNDALE.  369 

see  his  Highness  often,  now  that  they  also  were  go 
ing  to  the  front. 

"  Oh,  no,"  laughed  the  prince,  "  you  are  swells  and 
go  with  the  councillors  and  the  household,  to  look  at 
the  war.  I,  you  see,  am  nothing  but  a  private  under 
orders,  and  go  to  fight.''  They  walked  back  with 
the  prince  to  his  quarters,  outside  the  city,  and  saw 
his  sheepskin  blanket,  and  his  horse,  hung  all  over 
with  tin  cups  and  kettles  for  the  rough  bivouac,  and 
tasted  the  sour  brandy  and  dry,  hard  bread.  Guy  and 
Randolph  had  two  rooms  in  the  best  hotel  of  the 
town,  where  they  had  a  table  d'hote  of  seven  courses 
and  a  French  cuisine.  This  was  to  be  the  last  night 
of  it,  said  Randolph,  as  they  entered  the  quaint 
Eastern  inn,  with  its  central  court-yard  and  brick- 
floored,  windowless  bedrooms  opening  on  glass  gal 
leries  ;  the  last  night  they  were  to  pass  in  a  bedroom, 
with  a  bed  in  it  and  sheets. 

So  they  both  slept  long  and  soundly  ;  and  in  the 
morning  were  up  betimes  to  search  for  horses. 
Canaster's  jockey  knowledge  helped  them  in  this. 
Then  Guy  found  a  little  time  yet  to  go  to  the 
banker's  again,  in  search  of  a  letter  from  Lane.  But 
there  was  none  ;  and  early  in  the  afternoon  they 
started  for  Ploiesti. 
16* 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"There  was,  in  the  temple  of  Memphis,  a  high  pyramid  of  globes,  piled  one  upon 
the  other ;  a  preacher,  questioned  about  these  globes  by  a  tourist,  told  him  that 
they  represented  all  the  possible  worlds,  and  that  the  best  world  of  all  was  upon 
the  top;  the  tourist,  curious  to  see  this  best  of  all  possible  worlds,  clambered  up 
the  pyramid ;  and  when  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  top  globe,  the  first  thing  he 
saw  was  Tarquin  violating  Lucrece." — LEIBNITZ. 

THE  slow  weeks  of  preparation  passed  by  ;  the 
Russians  kept  up  an  incessant  but  quite  inef 
fectual  cannonade  across  the  river  ;  and  finally  the 
vanguard  of  their  army  crossed  the  Danube.  All 
this  time,  the  Turks  lay  idly  behind  their  earth 
works,  and  watched  the  hostile  pageant  as  if  it  were 
a  militia  parade.  They  were  evidently  hoping  that 
something  would  turn  up  to  prevent  it ;  but,  for  the 
nonce,  their  confidence  in  Allah  was  misplaced,  and 
nothing  of  the  kind  occurred.  However,  this  atti 
tude  of  the  enemy  had  the  effect  of  exciting  the 
boundless  admiration  of  Norton  Randolph,  who 
praised  their  consistent  and  philosophic  fatalism,  and 
regretted  deeply  that  the  stern  etiquette  of  war  for 
bade  his  crossing  the  river  to  make  them  a  friendly 
call.  But  Sistova  was  occupied  ;  and  this  place  in 
Bulgaria  had  so  lately  been  Turkish  that  he  thought 
it  worth  while  to  obtain  from  the  authorities  per 
mission  for  himself  and  Guy  to  visit  it.  So,  one  June 


GUERNDALE.  371 

morning,  buried  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  they  were  riding 
along  the  military  road — Randolph  in  high  spirits, 
Guy  rather  quiet,  as  was  his  wont  in  those  days. 

Already  the  blight  of  war  had  scarred  the  country, 
on  both  sides  of  the  river.  Many  of  the  villages 
were  in  ruins  ;  the  broad  stream,  filled  with  torpedoes 
and  patrolled  by  gmiboats,  deserted  of  all  shipping, 
ran  beside  them.  The  road  was  a  foot  deep  in  dust, 
and  crowded,  not  with  soldiers,  but  with  stragglers, 
pedlers,  peasants  ;  the  throngs  of  camp-followers  who 
seek  to  fish  in  waters  troubled  by  war.  Many  of  the 
peasants,  seeing  their  civilian's  dress,  would  stop  and 
beg  of  them  ;  they  knew  it  was  of  no  use  begging 
from  soldiers.  A  huge  cloud  of  dust  rose  ahead  of 
them,  dense,  like  yellow  steam  ;  when  close  upon  it, 
the_,  saw  that  it  was  caused  by  a  regiment  of  mounted 
Cossacks,  squatting  high  on  the  shoulders  of  their 
horses,  with  their  long  lances,  and  chanting  a  bar 
baric  war-song,  to  the  marching  music  of  whistles. 
Guy  and  Randolph  caught  up  with  them,  and  rode 
slowly  past  them  to  one  side,  noticing  their  tangled 
hair,  motley  dresses,  and  small,  fierce  eyes.  Before 
each  sotnia  was  borne  the  banner  of  the  holy  war  ; 
and  long  after  they  were  left  behind  and  lost  in  the 
dust,  carne  the  shrill  scream  of  the  whistles.  Ran 
dolph  asked  Guy,  somewhat  grimly,  if  he  felt  like  a 
crusader. 

Somewhat  grimly,  for  they  had  seen  much  of  the 
dirt  and  misery  and  horror  of  war,  these  past  few 
weeks,  and  had  grown  more  sceptical  about  the  ac 
cepted  reasons,  diplomatic,  social,  or  religious.  It 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  Turks  were  worse 


372  GUERNDALE. 

than  the  Kalmucks,  and  all  the  optimism  of  Can- 
dide  would  be  needed  to  prove  that  either  race  would 
do  much  good  by  killing  the  other.  One  thing  was 
certain  ;  they  had  seen  a  great  many  men  very  mis 
erable.  They  had  seen  the  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  the  Russian  army,  marching  in  misery  to  probable 
death,  with  dogged,  brute  valor,  for  which  they  were 
rewarded  with  the  sum  of  one  ruble  a  month  per 
man.  They  had  seen  these  men,  starving  on  one 
pound  of  bread  a  day,  and  only  hoping  for  the  ration 
of  coarse  beef  twice  a  week  that  had  been  promised 
them  by  the  government,  and  stolen  by  some  con 
tractor.  They  had  seen  a  great  review  of  the  army 
of  invasion,  held  before  the  Grand  Duke  in  person, 
where  the  wretched  rank  and  file,  ill-fed  and  ill-clad, 
walked  by  him  in  silence,  and  only  the  flat  swords 
of  the  officers  and  their  own  fear  of  Siberia  could 
call  out  a  cheer.  They  had  seen  the  wretched  in 
valids,  seeking  admittance  to  the  army  hospitals, 
scourged  like  hounds  upon  their  naked  flesh  lest  they 
should  be  shamming  ill.  What  wonder,  thought 
Randolph,  that  these  men  do  not  fear  Turkish  bul 
lets  ?  They  had  talked  with  the  officers,  too  ;  many, 
of  the  lower  grades,  were  nihilists  ;  and  these  would 
boldly  condemn  the  war  and  the  government  and 
all  things  that  make  Russia  Russia — less  fearful  of 
Siberia,  now  that  the  Czar  needed  their  lives  to  fling 
away  upon  Turkish  trenches,  and  talking  more  freely 
in  consequence.  And  they  had  seen  the  miserable, 
degraded  people,  for  whom  this  army  came,  looking 
stolidly  on  while  their  own  deliverance  was  wrought, 
fearing  their  Russian  captors  little  less  than  their 


GUERNDALE.  373 

old  Turkish  masters,  and  quite  as  willing  to  work 
them  evil  where  they  safely  could  ;  lying  always, 
stealing  when  they  found  a  chance,  and  robbing  and 
murdering  in  their  own  turn  such  Turks  as  had  not 
fled. 

Now  and  then  they  passed  a  wretched  Bulgarian 
village,  with  filthy  houses,  half  buried  in  the  earth, 
windowless,  with  low  doors,  and  openings  in  the 
reed-thatched  roofs,  through  which,  while  the  smoke 
struggled  to  get  out,  the  light  might  struggle  to  get 
in.  These  hovels  were  so  deep  sunken  in  the  ground 
that  the  eaves  were  level  with  the  soil,  and  pigs  might 
be  seen  rooting  upon  the  roof  ;  when  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  interior,  they  saw  that  the  floors  were 
of  damp  earth,  mouldy  with  fungus  and  alive  with 
vermin  ;  upon  them  rolled  and  wallowed  indiscrimi 
nately  the  domestic  animals  of  the  household,  dogs, 
pigs,  and  poultry,  and  the  naked  children. 

All  around  the  villages  lay  broad,  rich  lowlands, 
scarcely  cultivated,  gay  with  yellow  colza  and  pink 
dog-roses,  and  dotted  with  ponds,  their  margins 
fringed  with  broad  bands  of  purple  iris.  They  had 
never  seen  a  country  with  such  a  wealth  of  wild 
flowers.  The  sky  was  blue  without  a  cloud,  and  in 
the  clear  air  they  saw  incessantly  white  puffs  of 
smoke,  across  the  plain,  at  the  base  of  the  Turkish 
position,  and  heard  the  dull  thudding  of  the  cannon 
ade.  So  riding,  they  crossed  the  long  bridge  of 
boats,  'between  two  caisson  wagons,  and  came  into 
Sistova. 

In  this  little  city,  the  first  important  place  that 
had  been  occupied  by  the  Russians,  it  was  a  day  of 


374  GUERNDALE. 

rejoicing.  True,  the  Turkish  quarter,  the  best  part 
of  the  town,  was  deserted.  The  walls  were  riddled 
with  shot  and  shell,  the  windows  broken  and  the 
sashes  gone,  the  houses  pillaged  and  bare.  But 
about  the  market-place  the  houses  were  gay  with 
bunting,  the  windows  full  of  faces ;  and  in  the 
square,  rimmed  by  a  double  cordon  of  Russian  in 
fantry,  stood  the  Christian  bishop,  holding  the  pale 
blue  banner  of  the  Church  to  welcome  the  Grand 
Duke  and  the  army  of  liberation.  Two  little  girls, 
one  on  either  side  of  him,  chosen  from  among  the 
cleanest  of  the  Bulgarian  village  maidens,  stood  with 
trays  of  bread  and  salt.  And  all  around,  in  the  back 
ground,  crowded  the  Bulgarian  populace,  peering 
with  their  vicious  faces  and  small,  eager  eyes  to  see 
the  Grand  Duke.  There  seemed  to  be  no  women 
between  fifty  and  fifteen  ;  the  Bulgarian  maidens, 
on  being  married,  become  hags  without  any  inter 
vening  state  of  matronhood. 

Close  guarded  in  a  hollow  square  of  lancers,  the 
Grand  Duke  rode  slowly  up  and  dismounted.  As 
he  did  so,  the  bishop  bowred,  bending  forward  his 
banner ;  the  children  kneeled,  holding  up  their 
trays.  The  Grand  Duke,  clumsily  crossing  himself, 
broke  off  a  bit  of  the  bread  and  ate  it,  and  pretended 
to  partake  of  the  salt,  while  he  was  sprinkled  with 
holy  water  at  the  hands  of  the  bishop.  A  salvo  of 
artillery  completed  the  ceremony.  The  Bulgarians 
looked  on  in  silence,  lacking  either  the  will  or  the 
intelligence  to  cheer. 

Guy  and  Randolph  sought  through  the  wretched 
towr-  for  such  accommodations  as  the  place  afforded. 


GUERNDALE.  375 

Already  the  streets  were  thronged  with  drunken  sol 
diery,  robbing  and  rioting  where  they  could,  bear 
ing  their  plunder  through  the  streets  or  hurling  it 
into  large  fires  at  the  street-corners  for  sheer  wan 
tonness  when  they  could  turn  it  to  no  use.  The 
Bulgarian  population  shrank  silently  into  the  nar 
rower  lanes,  waiting,  like  vultures,  their  turn  for 
plunder  when  the  soldiers  were  sated.  Not  a  Turk 
was  to  be  seen  ;  all  seemed  to  have  fled  the  place. 

The  Americans  would  have  fared  hardly  for  quar 
ters,  had  they  not  met  Canaster  and  young  Prince 

T ,  who  offered  them  a  share  in  their  own.  The 

prince,  in  a  moment  when  few  subalterns"  were 
sober  and  trustworthy,  was  acting  as  aid  ;  but  Can 
aster  rode  a  little  out  of  his  way  to  show  them  the 
house.  In  outward  appearance  it  was  the  best  they 
had  yet  seen,  and  belonged  to  the  Cadi,  the  only 
Turkish  resident  who  had  dared  to  remain  in  the 
town  after  its  capture.  He  had  relied  for  his  safety 
on  a  long  life  of  benevolence  to  the  Christian  popu 
lation  ;  and  something  in  his  pluck  or  manners  had 
impressed  the  soldiery,  so  that  his  house  had  es 
caped  pillage.  All  the  servants  had  run  away,  Can 
aster  told  them,  but  his  daughters  remained  with 
him,  closely  confined. 

Canaster  knocked  at  the  door,  and  receiving  an 
answer  in  very  good  French,  they  entered.  The 
house,  as  usual,  was  of  stone  and  plaster ;  but  the 
entry-way  was  large  and  scrupulously  clean.  Ran 
dolph  stopped  to  wipe  his  shoes  carefully  upon  a 
mat,  and  the  others  followed  his  example  ;  then  they 
passed  under  a  superb  curtain  and  entered  a  ipa- 


3/6  GUERNDALE. 

cious  room  with  a  beautiful  mosaic  floor,  the  walls 
ornamented  like  those  in  the  Alhambra,  with  texts 
from  the  Koran  intertwined.  In  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  on  a  rug,  was  sitting  the  Cadi,  a  venerable 
gentleman  with  a  long  white  beard,  to  whom  Canaster 
presented  them  both  in  turn.  The  Turk  rose  gravely, 
bowed  in  courteous  fashion,  told  them  that  his  house 
and  all  it  contained  was  at  their  service,  and  that 
he  regretted  sincerely  that  the  terror  inspired  by 
the  army  and  companions  of  his  honored  guests  had 
caused  his  servants  to  flee  the  household,  so  that  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  offer  them  suitable 
entertainment ;  he  invited  them,  however,  to  a  seat. 
So  saying,  he  resumed  his  own  with  dignity  and  con 
tinued  to  smoke.  Canaster  took  his  leave,  the  Cadi 
rising  and  bowing  to  him  as  he  went  out.  Norton 
Randolph,  who  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  man 
ners  and  address  of  his  host,  sat  down  and  sought  to 
draw  him  into  conversation. 

Guy  walked  back  to  look  after  the  horses  ;  and 
when  he  returned,  the  two  seemed  to  be  getting  on 
so  well  together  that  he  did  not  wish  to  disturb 
them.  The  windows  of  the  room  opened  upon  a 
true  oriental  patio,  walled  so  high  that  there  was 
but  a  small  square  of  blue  sky  visible  above.  The 
sides  of  the  house  were  thick  with  vines  and  broad- 
leaved  plants  that  threw  a  green  shimmer  into  the 
water  of  the  fountain,  plashing  in  the  court-yard. 
Here  was  a  basin  of  clear,  cool  water,  grateful  to 
one  who  came  from  the  heat  of  the  open  and  the 
parched  roads.  In  the  grass-plots  at  the  corners 
grew  all  manner  of  fragrant  flowers,  roses  in  rich 


GUERNDALE.  377 

abundance  ;  and  here  Guy  threw  himself  down,  lis 
tening  to  the  distant  cries  of  pillage  and  the  tread  of 
troops,  that  came  scarcely  to  him  through  the  mas 
sive  stone  walls  which  barred  him  from  the  street. 
Louder  sounded  the  tinkle  of  the  fountain  near 
him  ;  and  so,  thinking  of  moss-grown  pools,  and  of 
cool  waters  ebbing  from  lips  of  stone,  or  from  forest 
margins  as  the  little  brook  used  to  do  in  Dale,  he 
fell  asleep. 

Randolph  awoke  him. 

"  The  old  fellow  has  promised  to  have  his  daugh 
ters  get  us  some  dinner,"  he  said.  "  I  am  anxious 
to  see  what  they  will  be  like." 

Surely  enough,  Randolph  had  so  insinuated  him 
self  into  the  likings  of  the  Cadi,  that  this  was  the 
substantial  result  of  his  amenities ;  and  going  into 
au  adjoining  room,  they  found  a  dinner  that  Ran 
dolph  declared  to  be  the  best  he  had  eaten  since  they 
crossed  the  Rhine.  Everything  was  clean  and  well 
served ;  and  the  curtains,  portieres,  and  marbles  would 
have  caused  envy  on  Fifth  Avenue.  But  in  one  thing 
Randolph  was  disappointed  ;  the  daughters  did  not 
make  their  appearance.  "  Ah,  well,"  sighed  Ran 
dolph,  "  the  old  fellow  is  quite  right ;  we  certainly 
have  noc  had  a  fitting  introduction."  And  after  din 
ner  they  smoked  their  host's  pipes  in  the  greenery 
of  the  cool  patio,  and  had  some  excellent  coffee,  pre 
pared  by  the  fair  invisible  hands. 

"  Guy,  my  boy,  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  I'm  a 
Goth— a  Vandal — a  Hun — anything  else  that  is  vul 
gar  and  barbarous  and  intrusive  !  "  growled  Norton. 
"  Don't  you  ?  Why,  compare  this  side  of  the  river — • 


3/8  GUERNDALE. 

the  cleanness  of  this  house,  the  beauty  of  this  place, 
'  with  the  dirt  and  squalor  and  degradation  of  those 
wretched  Servians  !  And  our  dignified,  patient  host, 
with  his  cultivation  and  his  courtly  manners — I 
don't  know  when  I  have  seen  a  Christian  to  com 
pare  with  him  !  And  we  claim  to  be  for  liberty  and 
enlightenment,  and  come  bursting  in  here  with  a 
horde  of  ignorant,  thieving  Kalmucks,  and  a  Czar 
who  wants  to  make  these  people  like  unto  them  ! 
As  if  one  creed  was  not  as  good  as  another,  as  long 
as  it.  turns  out  a  gentleman  !  And  a  better  gentle 
man  than  that  respectable  old  Double  Beziquc,  or 
whatever  his  title  is,  I  never  saw." 

Guy  smiled,  as  he  usually  did  when  he  saw  that 
his  friend's  freaks  were  meant  for  his  own  amuse 
ment,  and  the  latter  went  on  : 

"Just  think  of  that  old  boy's  hospitality — con 
joined  with  a  delicate  social  instinct  for  his  daugh 
ters'  acquaintance,  because  we  are  Christians.  I  feel 
tempted  to  renounce.  As  if  there  were  such  a  thun 
dering  amount  of  difference  between  a  cultivated 
Turk,  who  believes  in  God,  and  that  Mahomet  was 
His  prophet,  and  a  nineteenth-century  Unitarian, 
who  believes  in  the  same  God,  and  Christ,  or 
William  Shakespeare,  as  I  heard  that  intelligent 
minister  of  yours  say  one  day,  up  in  Dale  !  Bah, 
Guy!  I'm  disgusted.  Let's  change  sides." 

"  Norton,  old  fellow,  don't  you  think  we  are  rather 
too  fond  of  changing  sides — you  and  I  ?" 

"Yes,  Guy.  .  .  .  But,  after  all,  it  doesn't 
make  much  difference.  .  .  .  And  that's  the 
trouble." 


GUERNDALE.  379 

After  this,  the  two  men  went  on  smoking,  idle 
and  silent,  until  they  were  startled  by  hearing  a 
heavy  crash  at  the  front  door,  and  a  turmoil  of  sol 
diers  in  the  house,  and  a  clatter  of  Cossack  dialects. 
Guy  started  up  to  go  in  ;  but  they  were  met  by  the 
Turk,  who  came  calmly  out  of  the  room,  carrying 
with  him  his  heavy  pipe,  as  the  crowd  of  soldiers 
rushed  by. 

"Qu'est-ce "began  Randolph;  but  the  Cadi 

waved  him  to  a  seat. 

"  Ce  n'est  rien,  messieurs.  Ne  vous  genez  pas,  je 
vous  en  prie."  And  after  he  sat  down,  and  Ran 
dolph  had  resumed  his  seat,  he  told  him  that  the 
soldiers  had  discovered  that  there  was  a  loft  in  his 
house  filled  with  tobacco  ;  and  the  noise  was  caused 
by  their  efforts  in  plundering  it  and  fighting  over 

the  spoils.  ''But  the  ladies "  cried  Randolph, 

starting  up.  "Are  in  a  place  of  safety,"  said  he. 
Norton  offered  the  Cadi  his  sympathy  ;  but  the  lat 
ter  assured  him  there  was  no  need,  and  thanked  him 
gravely. 

"  Ca  ne  fait  rien,"  said  he.  "  D'ailleurs,  que 
faire  ? " 

Surely  enough,  a  procession  of  half-drunken  Cos 
sacks  came  back  through  the  room  opposite,  bearing 
in  their  arms  huge  bundles  of  tobacco,  like  over-dry 
hay.  And  at  the  same  time  a  pungent  snuffiness 
came  out  through  the  window,  and  set  them  all  to 
sneezing. 

When  Guy  and  Canaster  went  to  bed  they  found 
in  their  rooms  a  bath,  towels,  beds  neatly  made 
up,  and  all  the  appliances  of  a  comfortable  night. 


380  GUERNDALE. 

Whether  the  dread  of  the  advancing  army  had 
caused  the  fleas  also  to  leave,  is  uncertain  ;  possi 
bly  they  feared  the  vast  and  voracious  host  of  flea3 
which  the  invaders  brought  with  them  ;  certainly 
there  were  none  in  the  chamber.  The  best  couch 
had  evidently  been  reserved  for  Randolph,  who  was 
not  ready  to  join  them,  but  still  sat  below,  smoking 
writh  the  Cadi — the  two,  as  Lord  John  remarked, 
thicker  than  thieves. 

Guy  was  awaked  once  in  the  night,  by  Randolph, 
about  midnight.  "Come  down  and  help,  old  fel 
low  ;  there  is  a  gang  of  drunken  Russians  at  the 
door,  and  the  Cadi  is  down,  trying  to  pacify  them  ; 
and  they  wrant  his  daughters." 

The  two  waked  Canaster,  who  swore  viciously  on 
being  roused,  and  swore  yet  more  viciously  on  hear 
ing  the  purpose  of  their  waking  him.  They  crept 
softly  down,  in  their  stockings,  and  found  a  dozen 
drunken  soldiers  rioting  in  the  room  where  they 
had  lately  dined ;  and  two  of  the  drunkest  ones 
had  seized  a  silken  curtain-cord,  and  passed  it  with 
a  single  knot  around  the  Cadi's  neck,  and  so  were 
pulling  the  cord  in  opposite  directions,  one  at  either 
end,  and  asking  the  old  man  where  his  daughters 
were.  His  long  white  beard  was  knotted  in  the 
cord,  and  his  face  wras  purple  ;  but  he  showed  no 
other  evidence  of  emotion,  still  less  any  intention  of 
yielding  ;  and  it  gave  Randolph  acute  pleasure  to 
see  Canaster  knock  these  two  down,  while  he  and 
Guy,  with  their  revolvers,  induced  the  others  to 
move  into  the  street. 

There,  however,  they  clamored    about  the    door, 


GUERNDALE.  381 

and,  others  coming,  the  dispute  became  serious. 
Guy  was  meditating  emptying  his  revolver  among 
them  ;  Lord  John  stood  against  the  door-post,  and 
growled  like  a  bull-dog  ;  while  Randolph  exhausted 
the  French,  German,  and  a  portion  of  the  Russian 
languages  in  endeavoring  to  persuade  a  lieutenant  to 
keep  his  men  in  order.  This  the  latter  professed 
his  utter  inability  to  do.  Usually,  he  said,  they  were 
very  good  fellows  ;  but  he  was  quite  without  control 
over  them  when  not  in  the  ranks.  Luckily,  at  this 
juncture,  the  Prince  T—  —  appeared.  He  told  the 
men  his  real  rank,  and  ordered  them  away.  Only 
one  of  them  made  any  resistance  ;  cursing  the  Czar, 
and  all  the — -whatever  term  in  Russian  corresponds 
to  damned  aristocrats — he  sprang  at  the  Prince, 
who  shot  him  twice,  in  rapid  succession,  and  he 
fell,  seriously  wounded,  upon  the  cobble-stones. 
The  rest,  leaving  their  comrade,  slunk  away  like 
whipped  hounds ;  and  the  Prince  and  his  three 
companions  went  back  to  their  beds,  first  examining 
the  man,  whom  they  found  to  be  dead.  The  Cadi 
went  to  attend  them,  thanking  them  gravely,  but 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  Guy,"  said  Randolph,   after  blowing  out 
the  candle,  "what  do  you  think  of  war,  now  ?" 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

"  So  go  forth  to  the  world,  to  the  good  report  and  the  evil ! 
Go,  little  book  !  thy  tale,  is  it  not  evil  and  good  ? 
Go,  and  if  strangers  revile,  pass  quietly  by  without  answer. 
Go,  and  if  curious  friends  ask  of  thy  rearing  and  age, 
Say,  '  I  am  flitting  about  many  years  from  brain  unto  brain  of 
Feeble  and  restless  youths,  born  to  inglorious  days  : 
But,'  so  finish  the  word,  '  I  was  writ  in  a  Roman  chamber, 
When  from  Janiculan  heights  thundered  the  cannon  of  France.' " 

— CLOUCH. 

GUY  and  Randolph  stopped  some  weeks  at  Sis- 
tova ;  but  Guy  remembered  very  little  of  this 
part  of  the  summer,  when  he  and  Randolph  after 
wards  talked  it  over.  Despite  all  the  change  and 
nt>ise  and  fatigue  and  fighting,  it  seemed  dull  to  him, 
and  his  time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  He  rarely 
thought  much  ;  he  had  given  up  thinking  ;  but  the 
war  seemed  to  act  upon  his  mind  like  an  anaesthetic, 
and  his  sensibilities  were  deadened.  Then,  he  was 
never  alone.  For  some  reason  of  his  own,  Randolph 
kept  always  with  him,  seeking  to  amuse  him  by  an 
infinite  variety  of  moods  and  fancies,  to  excite  him 
by  stories  he  heard  of  the  fighting  that  was  going  on 
about  them  ;  now  trying  to  provoke  him  to  argu 
ment  by  his  old  half-earnest  indifference,  now  rais 
ing  a  laugh  by  some  grotesque  absurdity,  now  sooth 
ing  him  to  smoke  with  him  in  idle  companionship. 


GUERNDALE.  383 

Norton  was  distinctly  out  of  conceit  with  the  Rus 
sians  ;  this  much  was  evident.  "  I  say,  old  boy,  we 
can't  desert  our  colors  when  under  fire,  can  we, 
now  ?  "  he  would  say.  "Come,  young  Godefroi  de 
Bouillon,  how  much  personal  interest  do  you  sup 
pose  these  besotted  Bulgarians  take  in  the  true 
Cross  ? "  Or,  again,  he  would  lament  his  fate  in 
being  always  mixed  up  in  things  he  could  not  believe 
in.  "Why,"  he  complained,  "even  under  fire,  I  be 
lieve  I  should  be  only  half  in  earnest.  Heigho  !  I 
wish  the  old  Cadi  were  here  ;  then  there  would  be 
somebody  to  talk  to."  For  this  aged  gentleman 
had  been  shipped,  with  his  daughters,  to  a  place  of 
more  safety,  leaving,  when  he  went,  his  house  and  all 
it  contained  at  the  disposal  of  his  "  American  pre 
server  ;  "  and  its  most  secret  apartments  were  now  in 
their  undisputed  possession  ;  but  alas  !  the  charming 
inmates  had  flown. 

Up  to  this  time,  the  invasion  had  been  war  only  in 
form — an  armed  excursion.  The  Turks  had  been 
steadily  repulsed  through  the  whole  line  of  the 
Danube.  General  Gourko  had  flung  an  advanced 
guard  through  the  Shipka  Pass,  beyond  the  Balkans  ; 
and  the  complete  success  of  the  campaign  seemed 
assured.  Perhaps,  for  this  reason,  Randolph  had 
begun  to  sympathize  with  the  weaker  side. 

But  now  there  came  a  change.  Gourko  had  got 
too  far  from  the  main  army,  and  had  much  ado  to 
maintain  his  position.  While  he  was  still  staggering 
in  his  foothold  at  Fort  St.  Nicholas,  Osman  Pacha 
had  been  winding  himself  up,  like  a  spider,  in  Plevna. 
The  Russians  around  him  were  throwing  up  earth- 


384  GUERNDALE. 

works,  in  rather  a  desultory  way  ;  and  one  morning1 
they  found  that  Osman  had  suddenly  occupied  the 
heights  of  Loftcha,  near  by,  and  commanding  Plev 
na  ;  and  that  their  own  trenches  were  quite  too  low 
for  comfort.  So  the  news  reached  Sistova  that  a 
general  attack  had  been  ordered  ;  and  this  attack,  it 
was  whispered,  had  resulted  in  a  serious  repulse. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  division  after  division  was 
called  before  Plevna  ;  and  the  two  armies  lay  there, 
facing  one  another  ;  and  around  a  camp-fire  in  the 
northern  one  were  our  friends,  the  non-combat 
ants. 

Already  the  rough,  warlike  life  had  left  its  mark 
upon  them,  though  they  had  not  actually  been  in 
battle.  It  is  hard,  in  the  field,  to  retain  a  vestige  of 
the  refinements  of  civilized  life.  Canaster  was  there, 
in  a  garb  unknown  to  St.  James  Street  ;  Norton  Ran 
dolph  was  there,  quite  as  indifferent  as  ever,  now 
that  he  was  under  the  guns  of  the  enemy,  but  un 
deniably  dirty  (dirt,  he  said,  after  all,  was  only  mat 
ter  in  the  wrong  place,  and  war  was  the  right  place 
for  it)  ;  and  young  Prince  T —  —  was  there,  disgusted 
with  his  cavalry  regiment,  which  lay  useless  in  the 
background,  and  fighting  on  his  own  hook,  like  a 
Tartar  as  he  was — a  very  cream  of  Tartars,  as  Ran 
dolph  affectionately  called  him  ;  and  Guy  was  there, 
too,  feeling  a  certain  grim  enjoyment  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  thing,  forgetful  of  most  things,  though 
wondering  now  and  then  why  he  heard  no  further 
news  from  Lane. 

All  that  night  there  had  been  a  scream  of  shells 
and  a  roar  of  rifled  cannon  ;  and  the  mist  and  the 


GUERNDALE.  385 

cold,  and  the  barrenness  of  the  place  of  bivouac,  had 
made  it  a  nuit  blanche  for  most  of  them.  It  was  a 
dull  day  ;  there  was  little  doing,  though  the  cannon, 
out  of  courtesy,  kept  up  a  harmless  interchange  of 
compliments  ;  Canaster  rode  to  headquarters  for  the 
mail,  while  the  others  of  the  party  gave  themselves 
to  sleep,  to  make  amends  for  the  discomfort  of  the 
past  night.  In  the  afternoon,  after  Lord  John's  re 
turn,  Guy  disappeared  for  a  long  time,  and  Randolph 
lay  lazily  watching  the  men  at  work  strengthening 
the  entrenchments.  In  the  evening  an  orderly  was 
sent  to  warn  Canaster  and  his  friends  that  their  po 
sition  was  one  of  some  danger,  arid  to  advise  them  to 
go  further  to  the  rear ;  but  their  tent  was  just  put 
up  and  comfortably  arranged,  and  they  decided  to 
stay  and  see  it  out.  That  night  was  quieter  ;  the  in 
effectual  cannonade  still  continued,  but  by  that  time 
they  had  got  used  to  it,  and  all  slept  well. 

Guy  slept  unusually  late  ;  for  when  he  went  out, 
the  sun  had  risen  and  the  mists  were  clearing  away. 
The  cannonade  was  less  active,  for  the  Turks  were  all 
at  morning  prayers  ;  and  our  four  Christians,  includ 
ing  a  newspaper  correspondent,  were  seated  by  the 
fire,  smoking  clay  pipes,  and  playing  whist  at  a  ru 
ble  the  point.  It  was  really  almost  still  ;  the  long, 
wailing  cry  of  the  Muezzin  could  be  heard  from 
Plevna,  and  Randolph  was  just  telling  Guy  that  he 
felt  all  the  old  delight  of  cutting  chapel  at  college, 
\vhen  the  Prince  threw  down  his  cards  and  pointed 
to  a  long,  dark  line,  winding  among  the  wheat-fields 
in  the  valley.  It  was  of  a  dun  color,  the  uniforms  of 
Islam  being  none  of  the  brightest,  and  might  well 
17 


386  GUERNDALE. 

have  been  taken  for  a  religious  procession,  but  for 
the  flash  of  the  steel  points  against  the  corn. 

"  You  are  right  !  "  said  Randolph.  "  They  cer 
tainly  intend  to  pitch  into  something.  The  hypo 
critical  beggars  !  just  when  we  thought  them  safe  at 
prayers  ! " 

That  it  was  a:i  attack,  was  evident.  All  along  the 
Russian  lines  began  the  clatter  of  preparation  ; 
and  the  place  where  our  friends  were  might  not  be 
safe  many  minutes  more.  The  correspondent  of  the 
London  paper,  only  stopping  to  remind  Randolph 
that  their  score  was  a  treble  and  three,  hurried  back 
to  his  companions.  Guy  and  Randolph  looked  at 
one  another  ;  and  each  saw  what  the  other  wished  to 
do.  Canaster  and  Prince  T—  -  had  already  trans 
formed  themselves  into  irregular  infantry.  For  alas  ! 
by  this  time  there  was  no  lack  of  spare  pieces  and 
equipments.  The  two  Americans  followed  their  ex 
ample.  "  We  don't  want  to  run  away,"  laughed  Ran 
dolph,  apologetically.  "And  if  we  stay  here,  we 
might  as  well  do  some  rifle  practice,  in  self-defence. 
Besides,  they  have  given  us  a  fair  casus  belli— they 
interrupted  our  quiet  game  of  whist." 

So  the  four  stood  there,  in  the  fresh  summer 
morning,  grasping  their  rifles.  Guy's  piece  was  an 
old  weapon  that  had  belonged  to  some  Roumanian, 
and  the  cartridges  would  not  fit  ;  he  did  not  care, 
for  he  had  the  bayonet,  and  only  wished  it  for  pur 
poses  of  defence.  Besides,  it  was  not  likely  that  the 
Turks  would  come  so  near,  for  bayonets  were  rarely 
crossed  in  this  war ;  and  if  they  did,  he  reflected  that 
he  should  probably  run  away. 


GUERNDALE.  387 

Near  them  was  the  group  of  newspaper  corre 
spondents,  brave  fellows,  to  whom  the  dangers  and 
hardships  of  war  came  as  incidents  in  a  profession 
of  peace  and  civilization.  Most  of  these  were  hastily 
jotting  minutes  in  their  note-books,  their  horses 
tethered  close  behind  ;  but  as  the  enemy  came  nearer, 
many  of  them  grasped  pieces  and  thrust  their  note 
books  in  their  pockets.  Even  after  this,  and  in 
every  lull  of  the  engagement,  they  would  lay  down 
their  smoking  muskets  to  pull  out  a  note-book  and 
make  a  hasty  memorandum  of  some  point  of  ar 
rangement  in  the  attack,  or  of  some  sight  or  scene 
to  be  recorded.  The  bivouac  of  our  friends  was  be 
tween  a  regiment  of  the  Eighth  Army  Corps  and  a 
company  of  Roumanian  infantry.  For  the  Prince 

T ,  though  nominally  a  private  in  a  company  of 

cavalry,  was  very  much  of  a  free  lance,  and  usually 
got  leave,  when  it  was  certain  that  his  own  detach 
ment  would  not  be  wanted  in  the  front,  to  fight  where 
he  listed,  and  as  often  as  he  liked  ;  which  latter  was 
most  of  the  time. 

Three  long,  sinuous  streams  of  soldiery  were  now 
seen  to  be  winding  down  from  the  entrenchments  of 
Plevna.  The  cannonading  had  totally  ceased.  The 
two  great  armies  lay  silent,  face  to  face  ;  but  between 
them  was  the  broad  valley,  filled  with  yellow  corn 
fields,  and  adown  its  centre  shone  the  sun.  As  Guy 
watched,  he  saw  a  Turkish  officer  come  out  of  the 
entrenchment.  He  was  mounted  on  a  red  horse, 
and  Guy  could  see  him  point  with  his  sword,  al 
though  more  than  a  mile  in  distance  lay  between 
them.  He  pointed  with  his  sword  directly  toward 


558  GUERNDALE. 

the  Prince's  little  group,  turning  his  horse  a  little  as 
he  did  so.  Suddenly  there  came  in  Guy's  mind  a 
memory  of  that  morning,  years  ago  in  Dale,  when  he 
rode  with  Annie  to  call  on  the  widow  Sprowl,  and 
looked  across  the  valley  and  saw  the  old  horse  with 
the  stumpy  red  tail,  standing  beside  the  cider-mill. 
Strange  things  are  these  sudden  rushes  of  the  mem 
ory  to  slight  occurrences,  long  forgotten  ;  and  as  Guy 
looked  across  the  valley  to  the  Turkish  officer  on  his 
red  horse,  he  seemed  again  to  see  the  New  England 
valley  in  the  smoky  autumn  air  ;  and  the  quiet  mead 
ows,  and  to  hear  Annie's  sweet  voice  coming  out 
through  the  blinds  of  the  house  where  the  widow 
Sprowl  lay  ill. 

Then  there  came  a  roar  of  cannon,  rending  the  si 
lence,  making  the  clear  air  tremulous.  The  fore 
most  column  of  the  attack  was  now  half-way  through 
the  wheat  ;  and  the  wind  of  the  burning  powder 
swept  down  through  the  yellow  cornfields,  bend 
ing  the  grain,  and  a  great  flash  of  scarlet  came 
over  the  valley,  where  the  red  of  the  poppies 
came  up  through  the  yellow.  Then  the  -smoke  .of 
the  cannon  lowered  down  in  front  of  them,  and  the 
sun  turned  red,  and  all  was  hid  from  view. 

An  hour  or  more  they  stood  there,  not  firing,  but 
watching  for  the  enemy  ;  while  all  around  them  the 
crackle  of  the  musketry  drowned  the  dull  thudding 
of  the  cannon.  But  all  this  time  nothing  \vas  to  be 
seen  of  the  attack.  The  soldiers  about  them,  par 
ticularly  the  young  Roumanians,  were  wild  with  ex 
citement,  firing  ih  the  air,  firing  it  mattered  not 
where,  so  long  as  they  got  their  bullets  off  in  the  di- 


GUERNDALE.  389 

rection  of  the  Turkish  approach.  The  balls  which 
had  been  dropping  about  them  spent,  now  flew 
straighter  over  their  heads  ;  and  even,  once  in  a 
while,  a  man  would  be  wounded,  to  show  that  the 
attack  was  in  earnest.  None  of  our  friends  would 
lire,  but  stood  there  waiting  ;  though  the  suspense 
was  well-nigh  intolerable. 

Finally,  Randolph  touched  Guy's  elbow  softly, 
and  pointed  below.  Far  down  the  slope  of  the  line 
of  defence,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  they  saw  a 
figure  through  the  smoke.  It  was  that  of  a  man, 
tall  and  splendidly  built,  running  upward.  He  bore 
a  red  battle-flag  on  his  shoulder  ;  and  some  few  paces 
behind  him  swept  a  long  line  of  soldiers,  dim  in  the 
smoky  dust,  coming  up  with  their  bayonets  fixed. 
A  great  shout  rose  from  the  Russian  lines,  and  all 
theii  fire  converged  upon  this  point.  The  smoke, 
doubled  in  density,  fell  between  them  again  like  a 
curtain.  " Are  they  still  coming?"  cried  Canaster. 
His  voice  was  hoarse  with  excitement ;  and  dashing 
his  cap  to  the  ground,  he  began  firing  repeatedly 
into  the  mist.  But  no  ;  that  attack  was  repulsed. 
The  Turkish  column  had  fallen  rapidly  down  the 
hill,  and  was  re-forming  behind  the  bodies  of  the 
slain. 

A  moment's  breathing-spell  was  given  them.  The 
Prince,  hearing  a  rumor  that  a  charge  of  cavalry  was 
to  be  attempted,  rushed  hastily  back  to  his  quarters. 
Canaster  stood,  panting  with  excitement,  opening 
and  shutting  the  lock  of  his  gun.  Randolph  bor 
rowed  the  old  oiled-rag,  with  which  he  began  to  clean 
his  own  piece  ;  his  clothes  were  full  of  dust  and  his 


39O  GUERNDALE. 

hands  and  face  smeared  with  oil  and  burnt  powder. 
lie  looked  at  Guy  ;  there  was  an  unwonted  gleam  in 
his  eyes,  and  neither  thought  of  going  back.  Just 
below,  on  the  glacis,  was  a  wounded  horse,  Avinding 
around  like  a  kitten,  in  his  death-agony.  "  By  hea 
ven  !  There  he  is  again  !  "  cried  Randolph  ;  and  sure 
enough,  from  another  direction,  they  saw  the  same 
tall  figure  rushing  up,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
cheer  forward  the  dark  line  that  pressed  upon  his 
heels.  In  one  hand  he  now  had  a  musket,  and  in. 
the  other  he  still  bore  his  banner  ;  thus  armed,  he 
came  along  upon  the  run,  stopping  every  few  min 
utes  to  reload,  and  sticking  his  flag  in  the  earth, 
when  the  main  body  would  catch  up,  then  picking 
up  the  banner  and  rushing  on  far  ahead  of  them,  he 
\vould  calmly  discharge  his  piece,  and  with  the  ut 
most  sang  froid  stop  to  reload  as  before.  "  That  is  a 
splendid  fellow,  Guy,"  cried  Randolph.  They  couid 
see  his  long  black  hair,  so  long  that  it  whipped  his 
face  in  the  wind,  and  even  his  white  teeth  and  his 
strained  eyeballs  and  his  dark  features  working  with 
excitement.  A  red  silk  scarf  was  bound  about  the 
top  of  his  head,  and  his  dress  and  arms  shone,  yel 
low  with  gold. 

"  Fair  play,  at  all  events,"  muttered  Randolph  ; 
and  before  Guy  could  stop  him  he  had  sprung  out 
upon  the  narrow  edge  of  the  earthwork.  Calmly  he 
levelled  his  gun,  like  a  fowling-piece  ;  the  man  with 
the  red  silk  scarf  seemed  to  see  him,  and  a  little 
spurt  of  flame  leapt  from  his  gun  almost  before  Ran 
dolph's.  Both  reports  were  lost  in  the  noise  of  the 
battle,  quite  unheard.  Randolph  sprang  back  into 


GUERNDALE.  391 

the  trench  ;  the  Turk  turned  slowly  round,  poised 
himself  a  moment,  threw  his  banner,  spear-fashion, 
far  down  the  hill  into  the  ranks  of  his  friends  ;  then 
fell  to  the  earth  like  a  tree.  At  the  same  moment, 
the  Russians  gave  a  great  shout,  as  four  long  lanes 
were  opened  through  the  Turkish  ranks  ;  a  second 
after  came  the  thunder  of  a  new  battery,  just  placed 
behind  them.  There  was  a  moment's  check  ;  then 
the  entire  body  of  the  enemy  fell  back  in  wild  con 
fusion  into  the  valley. 

The  order  for  a  charge  of  cavalry  was  soon  given  ; 
and  Canaster  threw  down  his  gun  and  ran  for  his 
horse,  determined,  as  he  swore,  to  ride  with  them  a 
bit.  Many  of  the  Englishmen  joined  him,  Guy 
too  ;  only  Randolph  refused,  saying  he  had  had 
enough  of  fighting,  that  the  attack  was  repulsed  and 
that  was  enough.  As  he  spoke,  the  way  was  cleared 

for  the  cavalry  ;  Prince  T rode  among  them, 

waving  his  hat,  as  he  passed,  at  Canaster  and  Guy, 
who  threw  themselves  on  their  horses  and  followed 
close  behind. 

Randolph,  left  alone,  stayed  gloomily  by  their 
quarters,  out  of  humor  with  everything,  himself  most 
of  all.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  committed  a  murder. 
Poor  fellow  !  how  brave  he  had  been,  and  how  de 
voted  to  his  cause  !  How  he  had  striven  that  his 
country  might  win  !  How  pluckily  he  had  led  the 
charge,  returning  to  it  again  and  again,  cheering  on 
his  followers,  never  losing  the  flag  he  bore,  saving  it 
even  with  his  last  heart-throb  !  And  who  was  he,  Nor 
ton  Randolph,  a  careless  cosmopolitan,  an  idle  rover, 
a  weak,  good-for-nothing  dreamer,  that  he  should 


392  GUERNDALE. 

take  this  man's  life  ;  that  he  should  still  the  strong 
pulses  of  a  man  who  used  his  life  ;  that  he  should 
meet  him,  whoever  he  might  be,  and  shoot  him  like  a 
widgeon  ?  Because  he  was  on  the  wrong  side  ? 
Bah  !  Who  could  tell  what  was  the  wrong  side  in  this 
world  !  He  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  believing  in 
the  cause  he  fought  for,  like  those  poor  devils  of 
soldiers  down  in  the  valley.  What  enemy  had  this 
man  been,  or  all  Islam,  for  matter  of  that,  to  Norton 
Randolph  ?  This  was  a  fair  exploit,  truly,  for  his 
philosophy.  And  where  was  Guy  ?  A  pretty  fel 
low  was  he,  Norton,  to  butcher  a  Turk  in  cold  blood 
and  let  his  friend  go  off  alone  on  a  charge  of  cavalry. 
Such  was  the  tenor  of  Norton's  thoughts,  as  he 
looked  impatiently  round  the  scene  of  their  bivouac. 
The  little  plat  of  grass  was  burnt  and  trodden,  and 
cut  with  heavy  wheels  and  the  hoofs  of  horses.  In 
the  centre  were  the  ashes  of  the  camp-fire,  still 
smouldering,  and  among  them  the  pack  of  cards 
which  had  been  hastily  thrown  down  when  the  game 
was  broken  up.  The  overcoats  and  blankets  lay 
carelessly  around  the  fire-place  ;  Guy's  was  there, 
among  the  others.  As  Randolph  looked  at  it,  he 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  A  letter,  in  a 
lady's  handwriting,  had  apparently  fallen  from  one 
of  the  pockets  of  Guy's  overcoat  ;  there  it  lay  in  the 
ashes  ;  and  as  Randolph  picked  it  up,  he  thought 
lie  had  seen  the  handwriting.  The  letter  must  have 
been  contained  in  a  bundle  that  Canaster  had 
brought  them  the  day  before.  Randolph  thought  of 
Guy's  long  absence  that  afternoon  ;  although  Guy 
had  never  told  him  anything,  he  knew  much  of  which  . 


GUERNDALE.  393 

his  friend  thought  him  ignorant.  For  a  moment  he 
hesitated  ;  he  wished  very  much  to  know  who  had 
sent  that  letter.  For  Guy's  sake  he  wished  it.  But 
no  ;  he  could  not  open  it.  And  as  he  turned  it 
over  to  put  it  back,  he  read  the  letters  on  the  seal. 

Randolph  hurriedly  crumpled  the  letter,  and  thrust 
it  in  his  own  pocket  ;  then  he  grasped  his  revolver 
and  ran  back  to  the  place  where  their  horses  were 
picketed.  Mounting  his  own  he  rode  rapidly  down 
the  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  cavalry  pursuit.  It 
was  still  an  hour  before  sunset,  but  the  smoke  was 
hanging  low  over  the  battle-field  and  he  could  see 
nothing  ahead.  One  or  two  soldiers  cried  to  him  to 
come  back  ;  but  most  of  them  were  lying  down  to 
rest,  or  busied  \vith  carrying  away  the  wounded,  and 
none  the  less  did  Norton  ride  straight  in  the  track 
of  me  cavalry. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

At  last     .     .     .     forever. 

"  "T^ORGIVE  me,  dear  Guy,  that  I  write  to  you.  I  am  now  quite 
J-  alone  in  the  world  ;  and,  though  I  have  seen  you  so  little  of  late 
years,  I  feel  that  there  is  no  one  else  to  whom  I  can  say  what  I  have 
to  say  now.  You  were  Philip's  dear  old  friend,  were  you  not  ?  fie 
is  now  in  Europe — where,  I  do  not  know.  But  you  will  see  him,  and 
tell  him  to  come  back  to  me,  for  I  am  very  ill.  You  know  his  nature, 
and  can  do  this  good,  both  for  him  and  for  your  other  old  friend, 

"ANNIE  B.  SYMONDS. " 

This  letter  was  left  behind  in  Guy's  overcoat  as 
he  rode  down  into  the  valley  that  day,  with  the 
words  of  the  letter  burning  in  his  brain.  For 
twenty  hours  he  had  thought  upon  them  ;  first 
stricken  with  all  the  anguish  of  his  love,  then  by  his 
old  dull  despair.  What  did  she  wish  him  to  do? 
Whither  was  he  to  go  ?  He  could  not  tell.  Her 
letter  was  so  strange  ;  he  could  not  understand  it. 
He  had  not  even  known  that  Philip  was  in  Europe  ; 
then  how  could  he  hope  to  find  him  ?  And  what  was 
he  to  say  to  him,  if  he  did  ?  Why  should  she  have 
written  to  him  ?  How  could  things  be  so  bad  that 
she  should  have  turned  to  him  for  aid  ?  A  month 
before,  she  had  begged  him  not  to  return. 

And  yet,  through  all  this,  there  ran  a  strange  thrill 
of  happiness  ;  almost  a  flush  of  some  new  hope. 


GUERNDALE.  395 

for  he  saw  that  he  had  never  been  so  near  to  her  as 
now—  now,  when  she  turned  to  him,  though  it  were 
but  to  reach  the  lover  through  the  friend.  At  last, 
she  had  gauged  his  friendship  aright.  And  he 
thought  of  this  again  as  he  rode,  and  spurred  his 
horse  as  he  did  so,  and  went  on  with  the  foremost. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  Whither  was  he  to  go  ?  Now, 
at  least,  for  these  few  moments,  there  was  no  choice. 
For  this  half  hour,  whatever  lay  beyond,  his  life  was 
clear ;  some  strange  impulse  had  led  him  to  this 
charge,  and  now  he  could  not  falter  back,  for  all 
around  him  rode  his  friends.  His  friends  ;new  friends 
indeed,  made  the  day  before  yesterday,  but  already 
welded  to  him  in  the  heat  of  war.  In  front  was  rid 
ing  a  young  officer  who  had  shared  his  dinner  with 
him,  one  day  of  fainting  and  fatigue  ;  here  beside 
him  rode  another,  who  had  told  him  of  his  home 
and  hopes,  in  the  strange,  close  confidence  of  the 
day  before  the  fight.  And  there,  before  him,  lay 
Plevna  and  the  enemy ;  rightly  or  wrongly,  the 
enemy ;  and  the  bullets  that  whistled  by  his  ears 
angered  him,  and  the  booming  of  the  cannon,  and 
the  flutter  of  the  crescent  flag. 

Again  he  spurred  his  horse,  as  he  came  down  the 
hill  into  the  open,  with  the  rush  of  many  riders  on 
either  side  ;  and  he  felt  the  savage  joy  that  all  the 
horsemen  shared,  as  he  leaned  forward,  and  heard 
the  hasty  message  that  the  army  was  behind  them. 
Faster  still,  they  cried  ;  and  he  leaned  well  forward 
on  the  horse's  neck,  and  pressed  his  shoulders,  and 
felt  the  quick  breath  of  the  gallop  and  the  strain 
and  play  of.  the  mighty  muscles  beneath.  Now 


396  GUERNDALE. 

they  were  riding  through  the  bending  grain  ;  and 
the  scarlet  flash  of  the  poppies  came  up  through  the 
wheat,  and  other  red  gleams  where  the  corn  was 
trampled  and  the  roots  were  steeped  in  blood.  Here 
and  there,  in  the  full  speed  of  the  charge,  his  horse 
would  suddenly  swerve  aside,  and  he  saw  these 
places,  where  the  grain  was  beaten  down,  and  a  care 
less  heap  of  man  and  horse  lay  still  amid  the  straw. 

No  time  was  there  to  stop  and  look  ;  as  yet,  no 
one  of  them  had  fallen,  and  they  rode  straight  ahead 
and  with  no  sign  to  guide  them  but  the  roaring  of 
the  Turkish  cannonade.  No  enemy  was  to  be  seen  ; 
they  were  riding  into  a  brown  cloud  of  smoke,  cleft 
here  and  there  by  the  pink  glint  of  the  cannon  ;  but 
the  sound  of  the  guns  was  fused  in  one  vast  murmur 
like  the  sea,  and  louder  came  to  Guy  the  quick  beat 
of  his  horse's  hoofs  and  the  humming  of  the  wind 
about  his  face. 

Then,  as  he  rode,  there  came  a  new  surge  of  life 
in  his  heart.  Three  great  pulses  ;  and  the  stirred 
blood  tingled  in  his  temples  and  his  loins  ;  his  brain 
grew  clear  and  high,  his  heart  was  full,  and  once, 
once  at  least,  he  knew  that  he  was  living,  and  he 
felt  the  human  passion  and  the  strong  delight  that 
make  swift  motion  and  the  life  and  air  so  sweet.  O 
the  brave,  gay  world  !  he  was  glad  to  be  alive,  glad 
to  be  on  the  right  side  of  the  broad,  rich  earth,  be 
neath  the  high  and  open  sky !  He  lived  anew, 
and  he  loved  his  new  life,  and  the  hoarse  cry  of  the 
men  behind  him  sang  in  his  ears  like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet ;  the  sweep  of  the  charge  and  the  noise 
of  battle  were  like  sweet  music  ;  he  was  drunk 


GUERNDALE.  397 

with  awakened  life,  and  he  thanked  God  for  it,  and 
prayed  for  victory,  and  drove  the  rowels  in  his 
horse's  loins.  "  Huzza  ! "  the  men  cried,  and  he 
cheered  in  answer,  and  standing  in  his  stirrups 
waved  his  hat  high  before  him,  and  as  he  did  so,  the 
brown  cloud  that  was  ahead  quivered  and  opened, 
and  his  very  soul  leapt  from  him  far  from  the  earth 
— then  he  seemed  to  be  falling,  falling  in  a  rush  of 
air,  with  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 


"  Les  animaux  laches  vont  en  troupes  ; 
Le  lion  marche  seul  dans  le  desert." — A.  DE  VIGNY. 


SO  the  second  assault  of  Plevna  was  tried,  and 
failed  ;  and  the  long  evening  shadows  drew 
across  the  field  where  twenty  thousand  men  were 
slain  and  Guyon  Guerndale  lay  dead  or  dying.  A 
large,  still  star  came  out  over  the  hill,  as  the  sun 
sank  down  behind  it ;  the  smoke  of  the  battle  rolled 
away,  and  the  mists  of  the  night  rose  up  ;  the  cica 
das  were  chirping,  and  the  evening  noises  of  the 
fields  began,  as  if  the  blood  were  drops  of  dew 
and  no  darker  red  than  poppies  stained  the  corn. 
Though  men  may  war  as  much  as  ever,  the  fields  of 
battle  are  no  longer  haunted,  even  in  the  first  dark 
night ;  wTe  have  disenchanted  them  as  well ;  we  have 
driven  away  their  spirits,  good  as  well  as  evil.  No 
need  now  of  Valkyries  to  bear  the  souls  of  men  in 
battle  slain.  No  grimmer  figures  than  the  ravens 
circled  in  the  air  this  night ;  and  the  low  murmur 
ing  that  there  was  came  only  from  such  poor  hu 
mans  as  had  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  die,  or 
from  those  who  moaned  that  they  were  long  in  dy 
ing.  These  little  spots  of  conscious  matter  went 


GUERNDALE.  399 

out  like  taper-flames  ;  and  left  (we  know)  as  much 
behind  them. 

Guy,  however,  was  not  dead  ;  though,  for  a  long 
time,  he  lay  unconscious.  Now,  in  the  twilight,  his 
eyes  were  open  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  never 
in  his  life  had  had  a  calmer  mood.  But  for  the 
numbness  in  his  side,  he  might  have  been  lying  there 
to  watch  the  sunset  light  upon  the  hills.  His  horse 
had  fallen  dead  beside  him  ;  but  Guy  was  not 
bruised,  for  the  brute  had  been  fond  of  him  ;  and 
when  a  fragment  of  the  same  shell  had  wounded 
both,  he  had  stepped  (as  horses  will  do)  between  his 
master's  limbs  and  fallen  just  beyond. 

Here,  for  an  hour  or  more,  Guy  lay  ;  happy  either 
in  his  restoration  to  life,  or  in  the  relief  of  many 
things  that  death  would  bring.  The  day  before 
seemed  now  to  be  removed  from  him  by  many 
years  ;  now,  when  perhaps  there  was  to  be  no  day 
after.  He  thought  of  Annie's  letter  as  of  something 
that  had  happened  in  his  childhood.  "  I  would  have 
tried,"  he  murmured  ;  and  then  lay  dreamily  looking 
at  the  faint  light.  All  the  cannonade  had  ceased  ; 
the  camps  were  lost  in  the  dark  slope  of  the  hills  ; 
around  him  waved  the  wheat,  pale-amber  in  the 
gloaming.  It  was  as  still  as  an  old  summer  evening 
in  Dale,  by  the  meadows  or  by  Weedy  Pond.  He 
wondered,  would  some  strange  chance  ever  show  to 
Annie  the  letters  he  had  carved  there,  by  the  little 
brook  ?  He  did  not  care  very  much.  The  brooks 
ran  blood,  here,  to-night.  So  thinking,  he  fell 
asleep. 

Suddenly,   almost   immediately,   he   became  wide 


4OO  GUERNDALE. 

awake  again.  A  furlong  from  him  he  saw  a  group 
of  dark  figures  bending  down  amid  the  corn. 

"  My  God  ! "  he  muttered.  He  grew  faint  and 
sick,  and  a  wave  of  ice  came  about  his  heart. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  lie  thought,  "not  this!"  And 
his  tongue  grew  dry,  and  he  trembled  in  his  limbs 
like  a  coward. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  week  before,  when  they 
had  seen  the  Russian  killed  and  wounded,  who 
were  left  on  the  field  after  the  attack.  They  had 
gone  there  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  night  the 
Turks  had  done  their  work.  Even  the  bulls  in  the 
arena  will  show  some  mercy,  and  do  not  gore  a  dead 
horse  ;  but  these  mad  fighting  fanatics  knew  no 
emotion  but  rage.  He  had  seen  limb  torn  from 
limb,  great  red  crescents  gashed  upon  the  breast — 
O  God,  not  this  ! 

But  all  around  the  field  of  battle,  as  the  night 
grew  dark,  swarmed  the  Turkish  irregulars — Circas 
sians,  Bashi-Bazouks,  mad  Asian  savages — prowling 
among  the  slain  like  ghouls ;  robbing  and  rifling 
the  pockets  of  the  dead,  stripping  them  naked ; 
tearing  out  the  entrails  of  the  wounded  before  their 

O 

faces  ;  hacking  and  mutilating  the  bodies  of  both, 
in  a  lust  of  horror  and  of  gain. 

The  place  where  Guy  lay  was  so  near  the  Turkish 
batteries  that  they  dared  to  come  on  foot ;  and  he 
could  hear  their  low  chatter  as  they  passed  behind 
him.  Sooner  or  later,  they  were  sure  to  find  him. 
Beads  of  cold  sweat  stood  out  upon  his  forehead  ; 
ah,  had  he  but  a  knife,  that  he  might  kill  himself— 
that  he  might  at  least  kill  himself  first. 


GUERNDALE.  4OI 

Perhaps  he  might  yet  die  before  they  found  him. 
Annie,  dear  Annie — he  thought  of  her  again  at  this 
moment,  and  wished  that  something  might  bring 
him  to  her  mind.  He  even  stopped  to  imagine  her 
sorrow  when  she  heard  ;  and  the  thought  of  her 
sweet  pity  made  it  easier  to  bear.  He  was  thankful 
that  he  had  not  her  portrait  with  him  for  those  fiends 
to  find. 

He  heard  a  low  shout,  not  far  off ;  and  his  heart 
stood  still,  and  the  wave  of  ice  poured  down  his 
spine,  as  he  saw  a  figure,  pointing  in  his  direction. 
Every  conceivable  pang  of  fear  was  crowded  into 
that  one  moment.  There  was  no  one  to  save  him — 
no  one.  He  so  prayed  that  he  might  die.  Now  he 
saw  another  figure,  coming  swiftly  toward  him  on 
horseback.  Apparently,  the  first  Turk  had  not  seen 
him  ;  but  there  was  no  hope  now.  Courage,  cour 
age — that  was  all.  The  horse  would  discover  him, 
if  the  man  did  not.  As  the  horseman  dashed  up, 
the  horse  was  checked  back,  thrown  nearly  on  his 
haunches  ;  and  Guy  uttered  a  cry,  half-suppressed, 
and  then  bit  his  tongue  and  set  his  teeth  for  doing 
it. 

"Guy?" 

"  Norton  !  " 

"Thank  God!"  echoed  Randolph;  and,  dis 
mounting  hurriedly,  he  lifted  Guy  tenderly  upon 
the  horse's  shoulders.  Then  he  mounted  again,  and 
so  sat  in  the  saddle,  with  his  left  arm  tight  on  the 
reins,  and  his  right  supporting  Guy,  waiting  for  a 
favorable  opportunity ;  just  as  the  nearest  group 
were  bent  upon  their  plunder  he  turned  the  brave 


4O2  GUERNDALE. 

horse  with  his  spur  and  gave  him  his  head  across 
the  fields. 

So  far,  Norton  had  ridden  out  unobserved  ;  but 
this  change  of  direction  revealed  him  to  the  enemy. 
They  had  hardly  ridden  a  hundred  yards  before  they 
heard  the  shout  of  discovery  ;  a  moment  afterwards 
a  dozen  bullets  hurtled  over  their  heads.  After  the 
first  shock  of  surprise,  Guy  had  recovered  his  pres 
ence  of  mind,  and  with  it  a  sense  of  the  peril  his 
friend  was  braving  for  his  sake. 

"Norton,  Norton,"  he  whispered  faintly,  "please 
leave  me — dear — old  fellow— please — leave  me  !  You 
— cannot  save — both  !  And  I — am  wounded — mor 
tally —  The  words  came  in  syllables,  uttered  with 
difficulty,  broken  by  the  gallop  of  the  horse. 

"What,  Guy?  Don't  talk  so  much,  my  boy. 
You're  wounded,  you  know,"  Randolph's  calm, 
pleasant  voice  came  back  to  Guy.  "Steady,  old 
fellow — we'll  do  it  yet ! " 

The  cheery  tones  revived  Guy  like  a  cordial ;  and 
there  was  a  soothing,  satisfying  ring  in  the  well- 
known  voice.  Guy  could  not  see  Randolph's  face, 
and  he  was  too  weak  to  make  reply  ;  so  he  shut  his 
eyes  again,  and  gave  himself  over  to  his  friend. 

But  was  this  Norton  Randolph  ? — idle,  luxurious 
Randolph,  of  the  old  lazy  indifference  and  cynical 
carelessness  ? — could  he  be  this  man  with  the  face 
pale,  but  lips  firm  set,  and  a  hard  glitter  as  of  steel 
in  the  dark  gray  eyes  ?  Where  had  he  got  the  close 
seat  in  the  saddle,  the  nervous  strength  that  wound 
his  arm  around  Guy's  shoulders,  the  quick  eye  that 
guided  him  among  the  groups  of  the  enemy,  now 


GUERNDALE.  403 

hastily  mounting  and  dashing  in  pursuit  ?  Only  the 
old  calm  was  still  upon  his  face,  and  his  set  lips  and 
flashing  eyes  belied  it ;  and  the  veins  stood  out  upon 
his  small  hand  with  its  steady  grip  upon  the  bridle. 
Guy  had  a  delicious  sense  of  security  as  he  let  his 
head  sink  back  upon  the  strong  arm  about  his  neck, 
and  felt  the  long,  swinging  gallop  of  the  noble 
horse  ;  and  here  he  must  have  lost  consciousness. 
The  last  he  remembered  was  the  cool  rush  of  the 
wind  by  his  temples  ;  and  he  saw  Norton's  yellow 
moustache  just  above  his  eyes,  and  heard  the  distant 
rattle  of  the  musketry. 

It  was  the  very  boldness  of  Norton's  sally  that 
saved  him.  A  defeated  army  are  none  too  apt  to 
linger  about  the  scene  of  the  repulse  ;  and  here, 
under  the  batteries  of  Plevna,  with  the  Russian 
pickets  a  mile  away,  who  was  to  recognize  an  enemy 
in  the  horseman  that  rode  out  so  calmly  toward  the 
Turks  ?  The  plunderers  thought  him  one  of  their 
own  number,  no  doubt,  and  bent  upon  a  similar  er 
rand.  It  was  only  when  he  turned  and  spurred  his 
horse  away  again,  with  Guy  across  the  saddle,  that 
the  Turkish  skirmishers  discovered  him.  Then  the 
bullets  fell  around  him,  and  with  shrill  cries  of  rage 
they  mounted  and  gave  chase.  But  the  bullets  scat 
tered  harmlessly  ;  in  that  late  dusk  a  horseman  was 
not  visible  above  a  hundred  yards.  They  spurred 
on  their  horses,  screaming  for  very  anger  that  their 
booty  should  be  taken  from  them.  Randolph's 
horse  had  double  weight,  and  he  was  already  partly 
winded  with  the  ride  out.  Could  he  hope  to  escape  ? 
After  all,  they  were  wretchedly  mounted ;  and  his 


404  GUERNDALE. 

own  was  a  noble  animal,  and  knew  what  was  wanted 
of  him.  They  would  not  dare  to  follow  him  very 
far. 

And  in  a  few  moments  many  of  them  stopped,  and 
began  firing  again  ;  but  their  aim  was  even  more 
uncertain  than  before.  Now  Randolph  heard  only 
the  gallop  of  a  single  horseman  behind  him.  He 
thought  of  the  man  he  had  killed  that  afternoon  ; 
but  no,  loaded  as  he  was  with  Guy,  he  could  not 
stop  to  draw  his  own  revolver  though  he  heard  the 
man  firing  at  him  as  he  rode.  "Ah,  hit  a  man  in 
the  back,  will  you  ? "  he  growled  between  his  set 
teeth.  But  he  could  not  drop  the  bridle  to  return 
his  fire  ;  and  he  only  drove  the  rowels  deeper  in  his 
horse's  flank,  and  lifted  Guy  farther  up  upon  the 
pommel  in  front  of  him. 

And  riding  so,  Norton  Randolph  brought  his 
friend  into  camp. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

"  Mahnt  mich  nicht  dass  ich  alleine 
Bin  vom  Friihling  eingesperrt." 

AFTER  this  there  were  many  dreamy  days,  and 
Guy  lay  in  his  bed,  half-conscious,  half-re 
membering,  much  like  an  infant,  whom  we  may 
fancy,  sleeping  or  awake,  mingling  the  memory  of 
the  last  world  with  the  first  vague  consciousness  of 
this.  But  if  Guy  was  dreaming,  Norton  Randolph 
was  always  in  his  dream.  The  past  and  present  were 
mingled  in  his  mind  ;  but  Norton  was  ever  with  him, 
about  him,  controlling  his  movements,  determining 
his  surroundings.  Guy  knew  in  his  first  fever  that 
he  was  being  moved  ;  then,  later,  that  he  was  moving 
again  ;  that  he  was  no  longer  in  camp,  nor  near  the 
scenes  of  war,  but  in  some  far-off  place  which  was 
high  and  quiet  and  cool.  Here  the  days  went  by 
more  softly,  and  the  noon  light  was  like  twilight ; 
but  most  he  dreaded  to  awake  in  the  night ;  only 
even  then  Norton  seemed  always  to  be  there,  in  the 
black  loneliness.  At  last  a  time  came  when  he 
awoke  ;  but  the  effort  of  being  awake  was  exhaust 
ing  to  him,  and  he  could  do  little  more  than  lie  still, 
as  if  he  were  sleeping.  So  lying,  he  heard  a  low 
hum  of  voices  by  his  side  ;  they  seemed  to  take  him 


406  GUERNDALE. 

back  to  college,  and  to  old  college  days,  as  if  all 
that  had  happened  since  were  a  dream,  and  he  had 
but  fallen  asleep  in  the  deep  window-seat,  some 
June  day,  under  the  swaying  elm-branches,  and 
awaked  to  hear  the  men  around  him  talking.  He  was 
still  too  weak  to  feel  surprise  ;  he  could  only  lie  and 
ponder  vaguely  ;  then  he  opened  his  eyes  wider,  and 
saw  first  an  open  window  with  white  curtains,  and  a 
stir  of  summer  air,  and  through  this  a  line  of  hills, 
with  white  walls  and  squares  of  sloping  vineyards. 
This  was  not  college  ;  so  he  lay  still  and  wondered. 

For  Randolph,  unwilling  to  trust  Guy  to  the  army 
hospitals,  had  managed  to  get  an  ambulance,  and 
moved  Guy  to  Bucharest,  with  some  army  nurse  or 
wearer  of  the  Geneva  Cross  as  attendant.  And 
then,  under  her  advice,  he  had  taken  his  friend  still 
farther  north,  to  Pesth.  Here,  in  a  cool,  high  room, 
with  the  brown  Danube  beneath  him,  and  the  cliffs 
and  villages  of  Ofen  beyond,  Guy  had  been  placed  ; 
and  the  nurse,  a  member  of  a  Catholic  sisterhood, 
had  stayed  with  him. 

So  it  happened  that  when  Guy  awoke  this  day  he 
found  beside  him  his  old  friend  ;  and  with  him  was 
another  figure,  short,  familiar,  dressed  in  a  light 
check  suit ;  and  both  were  conversing  in  low  tones 
lest  they  should  disturb  him.  Then,  after  another 
moment,  Guy  looked  down,  and  saw  a  white  press 
of  bandages  ;  and  suddenly  the  memory  of  the  cav 
alry  charge  rushed  back  upon  him,  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  been  wounded,  and  remembered  those 
terrible  minutes  when  he  had  lain  bleeding  in  the 
long  grain,  and  how  Randolph  had  come  and  lifted 


GUERNDALE.  4O/ 

him  upon  his  horse,  and  they  had  started  on  the  ride 
for  life  ;  and  then  he  must  have  fainted,  for  the  rest 
he  had  forgotten.  Here  he  grew  weak  again,  for  so 
much  reasoning  had  tired  him  ;  then,  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  rest,  he  spoke,  but  very  faintly,  and  in 
a  queer  voice  : 

"  Norton,  old  fellow — have  I  been  very  ill  ?" 

The  two  voices  stopped  suddenly,  and  Randolph 
came  quickly  to  him. 

"  Guy  !  "  Guy  made  a  weak  effort  to  stretch  out 
his  hand.  "  Hush  !  don't  move,  old  boy — it's  all 
right  ? "  And  he  stood  by  the  bedside,  and  looked 
tenderly  down  upon  him.  "  Don't  move,  my  dear 
old  boy  ;  you're  all  bandaged  up,  you  know.  Quiet's 
the  word  ;  take  it  easy  for  a  day  or  two  ;  and  you'll 
be  on  the  right  side  of  the  soil  next  week." 

"All  right  ?  Well,  I  should  say  so.  He's  good  for 
a  dozen  dead  men  yet  ;  and  if  any  man  says  he  won't 
be  up  next  week,  I'll  knock  him  into  the  middle  of 
it."  And  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  William  Bixby 
came  smiling  up.  "  Thanks  to  Randolph  here,  you 
know." 

"  Billy  !  "  whispered  Guy,  "  you  here,  too  ?  " 

"Aye,  I  should  think  so,"  answered  Randolph, 
"and  Billy's  been  here  many  a  day  and  night  when 
you  were  farther  off  than  the  doctors  cared  to  follow 
you.  Now  quiet,  old  fellow — you  never  would  keep 
quiet,  you  know — and  in  a  day  or  two  we'll  tell  you 
all  about  it  ? " 

"  I  have  been  ill  ?  " 

"Well,"  grinned  Billy,  "even  old  Dr.  Wayland 
would  have  given  you  a  certificate  for  prayers.  Now 


408  GUERNDALE. 

brace  up,  old  man,  and  go  to  sleep,  or  else  you'll 
wake  the  baby.  Keep  your  pecker  up,  and  you'll  be 
on  deck  in  no  time  !  "  And  Guy  tried  to  respond  to 
Bixby's  smile  of  delight,  and  these  two  amiable 
nurses  walked  on  tip-toes  out  of  the  room.  Guy  was 
tired  with  so  much  conversation,  and  his  head  fell 
back  upon  the  pillow  and  he  must  have  fallen  asleep 
again  ;  for  when  he  next  woke  it  seemed  to  be  some 
other  day,  and  he  was  conscious  only  of  some  silent, 
watchful  presence,  a  woman  with  a  white  bonnet,  and 
still,  dark  eyes;  eyes  that  reminded  him  so  strangely 
of  some  one  whom  he  had  seen  before,  but  he  could 
not  remember  where. 

Then  there  came  long  days  when  it  seemed  that  all 
he  could  do  was  to  lie  and  drink  in  the  light,  and  feel 
the  cool  air  upon  his  forehead  ;  days  when  he  barely 
knew  that  he  was  alive,  before  he  thought  much  of 
life,  or  of  the  world,  or  what  he  should  do  when  he 
came  back  to  it.  Perhaps  these  were  the  happiest. 
It  was  the  dreamy,  half-life  of  convalescence  ;  he 
was  just  conscious  of  the  color  of  the  hills,  of  the 
fragrance  in  the  air,  but  was  still  too  weak  to  think, 
too  weak  even  for  memory.  The  white-hooded 
woman  was  always  there  ;  but  when  she  spoke  it  was 
in  French,  though  with  some  foreign  accent,  it 
seemed  ;  besides,  lie  never  saw  her  face,  but  only  her 
eyes.  And  Norton  and  Bixby,  too,  were  with  him  by 
turns,  nearly  all  the  time  ;  though  he  rarely  cared  to 
talk  much,  even  with  them,  and  only  felt  grateful  for 
their  kindness.  He  would  speak  when  he  was  stronger. 

Then  came  the  next  stage,  when  all  his  thoughts 
made  one  long  reverie,  and  only  his  imagination  was 


GUERNDALE.  409 

at  work,  weaving  scattered  memories  into  day 
dreams,  before  self-consciousness  and  care.  In  tnese 
days  he  would  lie  propped  up  on  pillows  (for  his 
wounds  were  bandaged  still,  and  made  it  dangerous 
for  him  to  move)  and  look  out  through  the  open  win 
dow,  and  see  the  white  walls  change  from  gray  to 
white,  and  then  to  yellow,  and  then  again  to  blue,  as 
the  sunlight  and  the  shadows  went  by,  and  the  noon 
was  past  and  the  evening  came.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  him  to  watch  even  so  small  a  thing  as  this  ;  and 
the  deep  blue  vault  of  heaven  and  the  crowded 
grapes,  fast  ripening  on  the  hot,  white  walls.  He 
used  to  look  at  them  and  follow  with  his  fancy  the 
process  of  the  vintage  ;  the  merry  labor  of  the  gath 
ering,  and  then  the  red  days  of  the  press,  and  the 
laying  away  in  deep,  cool  cellars,  perhaps  to  be  un 
corked  again  in  some  distant  year,  and  drunk  by 
some  gay  student-party,  such  as  he  remembered 
years  ago  at  college.  How  vivid  in  his  mind  were 
those  old  days!  And  now  he  was  lying  here,  mid 
dle-aged  and  wounded,  watching  the  grapes  ripen 
that  would  be  wine  for  other  men,  now  boys  ;  wine 
wrhich  they,  perhaps,  would  drink  as  quickly  and  as 
carelessly  as  he  had  used  to  do,  years  before.  He 
could  hear  their  drinking-song,  now. 

Opposite  wTas  a  huge  monastery,  white-walled, 
with  windows  few  and  narrow  ;  how  gloomy  it  must 
be  inside,  this  great,  stone  prison,  with  narrow  aper 
tures  for  light,  shutting  out  the  summer  with  the 
cold,  dead  rock.  It  reminded  him  of  the  great  for 
tress  of  the  monks  at  Klosternenburg,  which  he  re 
membered  to  have  seen  that  summer. 
18 


410  GUERNDALE. 

It  seemed  years  ago,  now,  that  week  when  they 
came  down  the  Danube  ;  and  they  had  gone  into  the 
cobwebbed  cellar  with  an  old  monk,  and  there,  from 
the  midst  o'f  the  fungus  and  the  dampness,  in  a  vault 
like  a  grave,  he  had  lifted  up  a  jar  of  wine,  and  un 
sealed  the  stone  lips,  and  the  wine  came  pouring  out, 
cool  and  bright,  like  yellow  sunlight.  Then  he  had 
not  thought  so  much  of  it,  but  now  he  remembered 
how  the  monk  had  seemed  to  taste  it  !  And  he 
could  fancy  himself  a  monk,  immured,  forgotten, 
with  all  the  little  that  there  was  of  his  life  behind 
him  ;  and  how  the  wine  would  bring  sweet  memories 
of  long-gone  summers,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  vin 
tage  time,  and  the  sparkle  and  the  merriment  of 
life  and  light,  as  it  gurgled  from  the  cold  stone. 

Then  Randolph,  coming  in,  would  talk  with  him 
long  and  pleasantly  ;  but  his  manner  would  be  dif 
ferent  from  the  Randolph  we  have  known,  and  I 
shall  not  try  to  set  down  here  what  he  said.  Perhaps 
he  would  speak  of  little  Bixby,  and  say  how  patient 
and  devoted  he  had  been  through  all  the  weary  days 
of  Guy's  delirium,  though  now  and  then  he  had 
asked  Randolph  to  take  his  place.  Or  he  would 
seek  to  tempt  Guy  with  many  schemes  of  what  they 
would  do  together  when  he  was  well ;  and  in  all  his 
talk  would  be  no  taint  of  bitterness,  but  only  earnest 
purpose  and  resolve.  Guy  would  listen,  smiling 
faintly  ;  but  though  he  was  gaining  strength,  there 
was  a  weariness  upon  him  and  he  did  not  care  to 
talk  much  of  his  future  life.  Sometimes  Randolph 
would  blame  himself  for  having  led  Guy  into  this 
danger  ;  but  then  his  friend  would  check  him  with 


GUERNDALE.  411 

a  smile  which  said  enough.  From  now  hencefor 
ward  there  was  no  shadow  in  the  trust  between  these 
two. 

Now  that  Guy  was  well  enough  to  be  left  alone, 
Norton  felt  that  he  ought  to  return  for  a  day  to  theii 
quarters  with  the  army  ;  as  well  to  get  the  things  that 
they  had  left  behind  as  to  thank  Canaster  and  others 
for  their  kindness.  Bixby  wras  expected  back  the 
next  day,  so  that  Guy  would  not  be  alone  ;  and  the 
night  before  Randolph's  departure  he  sat  late  into 
the  evening,  talking  quietly  with  Guy.  Guy  made 
him  tell  the  story  of  the  ride  back  into  camp  ;  and 
sought  to  thank  him  in  words,  for  the  first  time, 
which  Randolph  nervously  avoided.  It  was  the 
least  he  could  do,  he  said,  after  bringing  a  better 
man  out  on  one  of  his  own  fool's  errands.  Then 
he  began  talking  about  home  and  life  and  work. 
Hitherto  they  had  never  spoken  to  each  other  of 
the  past  ;  nor  had  either  told  the  other  of  himself  ; 
although,  perhaps,  for  lack  of  confidences,  their 
confidence  in  one  another  was  no  less.  But  that 
night  they  talked  a  little  more  of  their  own  lives  ; 
and  then  made  many  plans  for  the  future,  and  for 
going  home,  and  even  for  co-operation  in  some  work. 
Then  Randolph  told  Guy  that  it  was  no  mere  chance, 
his  having  met  him  on  the  Rhine,  but  that  he  had 
followed  him  thither  from  Freiberg. 

Then  began  another  conversation  on  such  themes 
as  men  will  use,  who,  speaking  of  the  world  to  come, 
are  thinking  chiefly  of  the  world  that  is.  So,  gradu 
ally,  they  came  to  deeper  things  ;  and  Randolph  re- 
quoted  back  to  Guy  his  favorite  lines  from  Soph- 


412  GUERNDALE. 

ocles.  Here  in  the  darkness,  in  the  seriousness  of 
Guy's  illness,  the  veil  of  shyness  could  be  drawn 
aside,  and  one  could  speak  the  thoughts  that  usually 
remain  thoughts  only.  But  strangely,  the  accus 
tomed  manner  of  each  was  changed  ;  perhaps  Guy 
was  too  tired  to  take  his  usual  side.  However,  Guy 
listened  approvingly  for  a  long  time  ;  he  sighed  a 
little,  with  fatigue,  when  Norton  came  to  an  end,  and 
asked  him  to  change  his  position  on  the  pillows. 
Then  Guy  insisted  on  Randolph's  lighting  his  cigar, 
which  hitherto  he  had  foregone  in  the  sick  room  ; 
and  Norton  did  so,  and  Guy  looked  through  the 
darkness  for  his  friend's  face. 

"  Guy,"  said  Randolph  finally,  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
something — you  remember  the  long  story  that  I  told 
you  near  Bingen,  that  afternoon,  about  the  man 
that  I  met  in  the  East  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Guy. 

Randolph  stopped  a  moment  to  trim  his  cigar. 
"Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  it  was  not  all  quite  true. 
I  never  met  such  a  man.  The  man  I  was  thinking 
of  was  myself." 

Then  Randolph  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  the  red 
spark  of  his  cigar  fading  and  glowing  through  the 
darkness.  Guy  must  have  fallen  asleep  ;  for  when 
he  woke  up,  his  friend  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

"  II  n'y  a  pas  un  homme  qui  ait  le  droit  de  mdpriser  les  hommes." 

— A.  DE  VIGNY. 

NOW  that  Guy's  fever  was  conquered,  he  was 
considered  out  of  danger.  It  was  simply  a 
question  of  healing  the  wound,  which  was  a  slow 
process,  though  it  was  well  encased  in  a  complica 
tion  of  bandages.  It  was  a  serious  wound  ;  and  un 
doubtedly,  had  not  Norton  turned  up  when  he  did 
on  the  night  of  the  assault,  Guy  would  have  slowly 
bled  to  death.  As  it  was,  it  seemed  to  Guy  like 
being  born  into  life  again  ;  and  even  now  he  was  too 
feeble  to  have  that  life  seem  quite  real  to  him.  At 
first,  his  perceptions  were  hardly  more  vivid  than  an 
infant's  ;  but  as  he  grew  stronger,  he  began  to  think, 
and  the  thinking  only  brought  weariness  and  trou 
ble.  It  is  so  happy,  sometimes,  to  be  too  ill  to  think  ! 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  bear  troubles  than  to  grow 
weary  with  foreseeing  them  !  So  Guy  would  lazily 
abandon  himself  to  his  sensations,  or  listen  distantly 
to  little  Bixby's  kind  chatter,  who  every  day  came 
to  his  bedside  with  a  new  lot  of  gossip  or  the  latest 
paper  or  the  last  Parisian  comedy,  telling  him  of 
what  the  world  was  doing — that  world  which  had 
been  such  a  vague  conception  to  Guy.  But  little 


4H  GUERNDALE. 

Bixby's  talk  was  less  dubious  than  of  old,  and  his 
stories  of  a  more  reputable  character  ;  and  he  rarely 
took  anything  to  drink,  and  if  he  did,  it  was  after 
dinner.  Guy  once  spoke  to  Bixby  of  this  reform, 
and  Bixby  blushed  up  to  his  ears,  as  if  being  rallied 
for  an  effeminate  weakness. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  he,  apologetically,  "that  before 
I  was  married,  I  said — that  is,  Emily  likes — in  short," 
he  concluded  desperately,  "  I  conducted  my  court 
ship  on  such  a  high  moral  plane,  that  I'm  damned  if 
I've  been  quite  able  to  get  down  off  it  ever  since  ! " 

"  My  dear  Billy,  do  you  know  that  I  never  once 
thought  of  your  being  married  ?  Excuse  me  ;  I'm 
not  more  than  half  awake  yet,  you  know.  But 
where  is  Mrs.  Bixby?" 

"Emily?  Oh,  she's  up  at  Vienna.  I  get  a  letter 
from  her  every  day — 

"At  Vienna?  And  you've  been  staying  down 
here  on  my  account " 

"  Sh  !  Shut  up,  my  dear  boy — she  approves  of  it. 
It's  all  right.  Which  is  more  than  she  does  of  the 
B.  and  S.,  I  can  tell  you  !  "  added  Billy,  with  a  com 
ical  moue.  "  Besides,  I  went  up  to  see  her  nearly 
every  day  while  Norton  was  here,  you  know." 

Guy  stretched  out  the  hand  that  was  on  the  sound 
side  of  his  body,  which  Billy  received,  and  laid 
back,  like  a  bird's  egg,  under  the  coverlet.  "Where 
is  Norton  ?" 

"Now  that  you  are  beginning  to  look  like  some 
thing,"  answered  Bixby,  "he  has  gone  back  to  the 
army  for  the  traps,  I  believe.  He  hasn't  been  able 
to  get  there  before,  you  know  ;  but  he  has  had  lots 


GUERNDALE.  41$ 

of  letters  from  Canaster  and  a  fellow  that  he  calls 
the  Cream  of  Tartars.  He  said  he'd  be  back  again 
by  to-morrow  or  day  after  ;  so  I  told  him  I  would 
stick  by  you  till  then,  and  keep  you  out  of  mischief. 
So  go  to  sleep,  old  man,  and  don't  make  an  ass  of 
yourself ;  and  when  you're  better,  I  want  you  to 
come  to  Vienna  and  see  Emily." 

Guy  smiled  ;  and  then  he  turned  aside  and  pre 
tended  to  doze,  not  wishing  to  keep  Billy  from  his 
morning  walk  ;  and  he,  after  watching  Guy  for  a 
few  moments,  pulled  a  large  cigar  out  of  his  waist 
coat  pocket,  and  looked  at  it  admiringly,  and  then 
back  at  Guy,  and  then  at  the  cigar  again  ;  after 
several  minutes  of  these  alternate  glances,  he  pulled 
out  a  penknife  and  carefully  cut  the  mouth-end. 
At  this  point  Guy  judged  it  proper  to  simulate  the 
gentle  breathing  of  a  person  who  is  asleep  ;  and 
Bixby,  after  looking  at  him  again,  went  out  softly, 
speaking  a  word  to  the  nurse  in  the  anteroom  as  he 
closed  the  door.  Guy  lay  there,  thinking  of  the 
kindness  of  this  man,  who  had  been  a  mere  acquaint 
ance  of  his  in  college,  whom  he  had  not  thought  of 
four  times  in  as  many  years.  With  Norton,  of 
course,  it  was  different.  He  cared  more  for  Norton 
than  for  any  man  in  the  world.  But  little  Bixby  ! 
Two  men  more  unlike  than  Bixby  and  himself  could 
not  be  imagined.  Ah,  if,  years  ago,  any  one  had 
prophesied  to  him  that  these  men  would  be  first  in 
his  mind  at  this  moment !  And  irresistibly  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  Philip  ;  and,  for  the  first  time, 
he  remembered  Annie's  letter. 

Annie's  letter  !     Where  was  it ?     He  put  his  hand 


416  GUERNDALE. 

to  his  pocket  as  if  to  feel  for  it ;  then  he  remem 
bered  that  he  was  lying  in  bed,  and  that,  of  course, 
it  must  be  in  his  overcoat,  where  he  had  left  it  the 
morning  of  the  fight.  His  overcoat  was  hanging  up 
at  the  end  of  the  room ;  and  he  knew  he  could  not 
move,  much  less  walk,  without  loosening  his  band 
ages.  Could  the  letter  have  been  lost  ?  He  could 
not  bear  to  have  it  lost.  He  had  taken  a  long  walk 
when  he  read  it,  and  he  did  not  remember  very  well. 
The  nurse  heard  his  sigh  of  impatience,  and,  seeing 
his  motion,  brought  the  coat  to  him. 

"  Monsieur  desires  to  find  something  ?  The  coat 
is  as  he  left  it." 

Truly  enough,  so  it  was ;  and  in  the  pocket  Guy 
found  the  letter,  which  he  had  almost  hoped  to  be 
part  of  his  fever  dream.  The  coat  was  blood-stained 
in  places,  having  been  used  as  a  wrapper  when  he 
was  taken  from  the  camp  ;  but  Norton  had  carefully 
restored  the  letter  to  its  place,  and  there  it  was, 
slightly  crumpled.  Guy  took  it  out,  and  managed 
to  open  it  with  one  hand,  the  nurse  tactfully  turning 
away  as  he  read  it. 

Philip.  That  was  it ;  he  was  to  find  Philip.  But 
where  \vas  he  ?  Ah,  he  could  not  think  now  ;  he 
was  too  tired.  It  was  all  weary  and  far  off  ;  he  had 
even  hoped  it  was  all  a  dream.  For  so  many  days 
he  had  forgotten  it ;  from  the  moment  of  the  charge 
of  cavalry  all  seemed  so  different  to  him.  Now,  and 
in  the  future,  all  should  be  changed  ;  a  new  life 
had  begun  for  him  ;  all  the  old  failure  should  be 
forgotten  and  gone.  Again  he  put  it  from  his  mind, 
'and  tried  to  spin  a  day-dream  of  the  future  as  he 


GUERNDALE.  4I/ 

had  used  to  do  in  the  old  days.  But  despite  all  the 
efforts  of  his  imagination,  all  that  Norton  had  said 
to  him  the  evening  before,  it  seemed  cold  and  indif 
ferent  ;  more  like  the  project  of  an  old  man  than 
the  vision  of  a  youth.  Thinking  this,  his  weariness 
overcame  him,  and  he  fell  into  a  doze  ;  and  the 
hours  slipped  over  his  closed  eyelids  into  eternity,  and 
the  day  went  by  as  many  another  had  gone  before  it. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  woke  again.  He  was 
more  feverish  than  before,  and  did  not  feel  so  strong. 
Bixby  had  come  in,  and  was  telling  him  that  he  had 
brought  a  friend  to  see  him.  Guy  turned  ner 
vously  ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  this  had  happened 
once  before,  and  he  knew,  before  the  door  was 
opened,  who  was  coming  in  :  Philip  Symonds. 

Bixby  had  met  him  at  the  Victoria  Hotel,  seeking 
their  whereabouts  ;  and  had  brought  him  hither, 
thinking  of  course  that  Guy  could  see  his  old  chum 
at  any  time.  Besides,  Philip  had  said  that  he  wanted 
to  see  him  ;  hearing  at  Vienna  of  his  wound,  he  had 
come  down  expressly  for  that  purpose.  He  only 
made  a  visit  of  half  an  hour,  talking  loudly  in  a  sort 
of  rude  imitation  of  his  old  manner.  He  was  glad 
to  have  found  Guy,  he  said  ;  but  Pesth  was  a  damned 
dull  hole,  and  now  that  he  had  seen  him,  he  thought 
he  should  have  to  go  back  to  Vienna  on  the  morrow. 
Guy  could  say  very  little  ;  throughout  the  inter 
view  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Philip's.  The  latter  seemed  rather  to  avoid 
his  glance.  Perhaps  both  felt  that  there  was  so 
much  that  might  be  said,  and  so  little  of  which  either 
cared  to  speak,  that  the  conversation  suffered  from 
18* 


418  GUERNDALE. 

constraint.  Bixby,  usually  unobservant,  noticed 
this  ;  but  he  ascribed  Guy's  silence  to  his  weakness, 
and  kept  up  most  of  the  talk  with  Philip  himself. 
Philip  spoke  critically  of  the  relative  attractions  of 
Paris  and  Vienna,  and  dwelt  much  upon  his  damned 
hard  luck  at  Monaco  ;  he  was  no  longer  as  fine- 
looking  as  he  used  to  be  ;  he  had  grown  stout  and 
coarse-featured  ;  his  neck  was  very  thick,  and  the 
small  blood-vessels  in  his  face  were  swollen.  There 
was  a  curious  nervous  twitching  under  his  eyes.  He 
was  disgusted  with  Biida-Pesth,  he  said  ;  the  cook 
ing  at  his  hotel  was  very  bad,  and  the  wines  vile.  Be 
sides,  he  was  deuced  lonely;  there  wasn't  a  white  man 
in  the  place  to  keep  him  company.  He  had  tried  to 
get  Bixby  to  go  with  him  to  a  dance  of  Hungarian 
women  that  his  guide  was  to  get  up  for  that  night  ; 
but  Bixby  wouldn't  go.  Well  !  he  said  awkwardly, 
he  supposed  he  must  be  going.  He  was  glad  to  have 
seen  Guy;  he  would  be  right  as  a  trivet  in  a  day  or  two. 
Despite  the  nurse's  caution,  Philip  spoke  in  a  loud 
tone  ;  Bixby  went  out  a  moment  and  left  Philip  with 
Guy.  There  was  a  flush  in  Guy's  face  ;  but  he  said 
nothing.  This  embarrassed  Philip  ;  he  had  hoped, 
when  he  came,  that  Guy  would  behave  like  a  good 
fellow,  with  no  more  damned  nonsense  ;  so  he  had 
assured  himself,  for  Phil's  was  an  easy  nature,  for 
getting  injuries  as  well  as  favors,  and  he  always 
judged  others  by  himself  ;  but  despite  his  mental 
assurance,  he  felt  a  little  embarrassed  at  this  mo 
ment.  Bosh  !  he  said  to  himself,  the  fool  couldn't 
have  kept  cranky  about  nothing  for  five  years.  Be 
sides,  he  had  ulterior  motives  for  wishing  to  be  on 


GUERNDALE.  419 

good  terms  with  Guy  ;  so  he  confidently  held  out  his 
hand  to  say  good-by.  Guy  could  not,  in  truth,  give 
him  that  hand  on  account  of  his  wound  ;  but  Philip 
did  not  know  this.  The  color  deepened  in  his  face  ; 
he  thought  the  act  was  intentional,  and  remembering 
his  old  patronizing,  half-contemptuous  friendship  for 
his  friend,  found  it  the  harder  to  bear.  However,  it 
would  not  do  to  break  with  Guy  just  then,  when  he 
alone  could  be  of  service  to  him  ;  so  he  crushed  the 
oath  between  his  teeth.  It  was  hard  to  have  to  con 
trol  his  temper — with  Guy,  above  all  men. 

"1  wish  you  would  come  again  to  see  me,"  said 
Guy,  in  a  low,  constrained  voice.  "  I  want  to  see 
you  once  alone." 

Philip  growled  an  ungracious  consent  ;  he  was  an 
gry  enough,  but  then  he,  too,  wished  this  interview. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  come  at  all,"  added  Guy,  see 
ing  that  Philip  was  offended.  "  How  is  Mrs.  Symonds? " 

This  was  too  much.  Philip  turned  angrily  upon 
his  heel,  and  came  back  to  the  bed.  "  I  don't  know," 
he  said,  rudely.  "  I  haven't  heard  for  some  weeks. 
Why  do  you  ask  me  that  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wished  to  know,"  said  Guy,  feebly. 
"  I  heard  she  was  ill.  Have  you  not  heard  from  her 
lately?" 

"  I  heard  last  in  Paris.  She  was  well  enough  then. 
I  have  had  to  travel  too  rapidly  to  get  many  letters. 
If  she  had  known  I  was  going  to  see  you,  very  likely 
she  would  have  sent  a  message,  but  she  didn't,"  he 
added,  with  a  sneer. 

"  She  isn't  with  you  in  Europe  ?  How  long  ago 
did  you  hear  in  Paris  ?  " 


42O  GUERNDALE. 

Philip  could  stand  it  no  longer,  but  broke  all  self- 
restraint  in  a  furious  oath.  "  I  am  too  poor  now  to 
drag  a  family  around  Europe  with  me.  I  had  to 
fail  in  business.  Didn't  you  hear  that  ?  I  have  lost 
all  my  money."  Philip  \valked  rapidly  up  and  down 
the  room.  Guy  closed  his  eyes  wearily. 

"God  knows,  I  have  worked  hard  enough,"  said 
Philip,  after  some  minutes,  changing  his  tone.  "  I 
tell  you  what,  Guy,  poverty  is  all  very  easy  to  bear 
when  you  are  alone  ;  but  when  a  man  has  a  family  to 

support I  have  been  all  over  Europe,  trying 

to  get  some  chance.  And  all  I  can  say  is,  I  have 
had  damned  hard  luck." 

Phil  looked  at  Guy  ;  his  eyes  were  still  shut,  and 
his  face  was  now  very  pale.  He  drew  his  chair  up 
to  the  bed,  and  sat  down. 

"  That  reminds  me,  Guy,  that  I  wanted  to  see  you 
about  something.  I  know  you've  been  in  a  sort  of  a 
huff  of  late  years  ;  but  you  aren't  the  sort  of  fellow 
that  bears  malice,  and  I  know  you  will  lend  a  fellow 
a  hand.  Now  your  friend  Norton  Randolph " 

Just  then  Bixby  came  back,  and  Philip  stopped  di 
rectly.  The  nurse  was  with  him  ;  and  seeing  Guy's 
face,  she  said  he  must  have  rest  immediately.  Philip 
got  up  to  go,  taking  his  leave  rather  clumsily.  Even 
his  good-nature  seemed  to  be  gone  ;  and  Guy  heard 
him  angrily  disputing  with  Bixby  about  some  refusal 
of  the  latter,  as  they  left  the  room. 

Guy  had  a  relapse  that  evening,  and  all  the  night 
was  in  a  high  fever.  Poor  Bixby,  who  had  hoped  to 
be  in  Vienna,  stayed  faithfully  by  his  side  ;  and  the 
next  evening  Randolph  returned  from  Bucharest. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

"...  How  he  that  loves  life  overmuch  shall  die 

The  dog's  death,  utterly.  .  .  .  " — SWINBURNE. 

FATE  had  certainly  treated  Phil  Symonds  rather 
unkindly.  Blest  with  health,  wealth,  and  many 
friends  ;  handsome,  good-natured,  well-born,  popu 
lar  ;  he  had  lost  his  own  fortune,  that  of  his  wife,  all 
his  friends,  and  most  of  his  popularity  ;  and  now,  at 
b«°.rely  thirty,  he  was  drifting  around  Europe  like  a 
vagrant,  and  would  probably  be  forced  to  borrow 
money  of  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  whom  he 
wished  to  be  under  an  obligation.  So  he  thought  ; 
and,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  it  was  hard 
luck.  So  firmly  conscious  was  he  of  his  own 
deserts,  that  the  approach  of  any  evil  seemed  an 
injustice  ;  it  was  not  his  fault,  and  he  had  not  de 
served  it.  He  had  never  done  a  wrong  to  any  one, 
he  reflected.  All  his  friends  had  always  liked  him, 
and  now  they  all  went  back  upon  him.  Besides,  he 
had  never  been  used  to  adversity,  and  it  was  harder 
for  him  than  it  would  be  for  another  man.  He  had 
done  his  best.  Now,  to-day,  he  had  been  to  see  Guy, 
and  had  all  his  tro'uble  for  nothing  ;  and,  in  return, 
Guy  had  had  the  impudence  to  meddle  in  his  own 
affairs. 


422  GUERNDALE. 

As  he  thought  of  Guy  that  night,  he  came  as  near 
hating  him  as  he  was  capable  of  hating  any  man. 
Phil  was  not  a  good  hater.  He  was  always  indul 
gent  enough  to  his  friends'  faults  ;  what  did  he  care, 
so  long  as  they  did  not  affect  him  personally  ?  They 
usually  gave  him  rather  a  sensation  of  pleasure,  than 
otherwise.  Had  he  been  Guy,  Phil  reflected,  he  never 
would  have  cared  a  damn  what  his  friend  did,  or  how 
he  fulfilled  his  domestic  relations  ;  and  that  day  he 
had  more  than  ever  been  conscious  of  a  critical  atti 
tude  on  Guy's  part,  and  something  made  him  feel 
what  it  was  that  had  most  excited  Guy's  disapproval. 
And  it  seemed  as  if,  in  some  way,  all  his  misfortunes 
could  be  traced  to  Guy's  disapproval.  Now  he 
thought  of  it,  when  he  looked  back  to  any  step  in 
his  life  which  had  proved  unfortunate,  he  remem 
bered  Guy's  sour  face,  or  some  cursed  sermon  of  his. 
And  how  much  he  had  done  for  the  man  !  How  he 
had  helped  him,  and  pushed  him,  and  stood  up  for 
him,  and  would  have  lent  him  money  if  he  had  asked 
it  !  What  a  friend  he  had  always  been  to  him  ;  at 
least,  until  he  turned  cranky  about  nothing  and 
made  a  damned  fool  of  himself.  All  these  reflec 
tions  came  to  Philip  as  he  wras  sitting  in  a  sort  of 
dance-house  in  Buda,  much  frequented  by  male 
tourists,  where,  for  a  florin  or  two,  may  be  seen 
dancing  of  a  piece  with  the  famous  flea-dance  in 
Egypt. 

Then  there  was  his  wife.  Somehow  or  other, 
there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  connection  between 
Guy's  disapproval  and  hers.  In  their  disagreeable 
side,  there  was  a  certain  resemblance  between  them. 


GUERNDALE.  423 

He  now  remembered  to  have  seen  the  same  expres 
sion  in  her  face  which  he  had  seen  in  Guy's,  that 
afternoon.  She  too  was  turning  from  him,  and  was 
false  just  when  he  most  needed  her.  She  did  not 
even  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  now  ;  it  was 
two  months  since  he  had  last  heard  from  her.  To 
be  sure,  he  had  left  England  unexpectedly,  and  had 
been  travelling  too  rapidly  to  get  many  letters. 
When  he  left  her,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  he  had  sworn 
he  did  not  care  whether  she  wrote  to  him  or  not ;  but 
now  that  Guy  cared  to  hear  from  her,  he  cared  too. 

Why  had  Guy  spoken  of  her  that  afternoon  ?  Had 
he  had  news  from  her  ?  Of  course,  he,  Philip,  had 
not  lately  got  her  letters.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
very  suddenly  to  run  up  to  Vienna,  before  returning 
home.  As  long  as  he  was  abroad,  he  might  do  some 
thing  for  his  own  pleasure.  Besides,  it  was  import 
ant  for  him  to  see  Randolph.  As  for  the  letters,  he 
would  telegraph  to  have  them  forwarded  from  Nice 
or  London.  It  was  like  Guerndale's  infernal  med 
dlesome  cheek,  blaming  him,  though.  Did  he  really 
remember  that  old  flame  he  had  had  for  her,  as  a 
boy  ?  The  little  ass  !  As  if  any  girl  was  worth  re 
membering  five  years.  Phil's  language,  when  com 
muning  with  himself,  was  rather  intemperate  ;  and 
he  sat  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  did  not  see 
much  of  the  dancing.  But  indeed  this  was  not  very 
good — that  is,  bad.  He  had  seen  better — that  is, 
worse — in  Paris. 

If  he  had  not  been  a  devilish  good-natured  fellow, 
he  would  not  have  stood  this  from  Guy.  Now  he 
thought  of  it,  and  any  man  but  himself  would  have 


424  GUERNDALE. 

thought  of  it  long  before,  Guy  had  never  behaved 
like  a  friend  to  him.  He  was  always  throwing  a 
damper  on  everything,  when  they  roomed  together 
in  college  ;  and  he  had  only  stood  it  out  of  kindness. 
Besides,  he  had  not  forgotten  that  time  at  Worces 
ter,  in  the  race,  when  Guy  had  been  mean  enough 
to  refuse  him  the  commonest  favor  and  prevent  his 
making  a  cool  thousand  or  two  for  his  trouble.  Then 
he  believed  he  had  set  Norton  Randolph  against 
him  ;  and  Randolph's  influence  would  be  very  valua 
ble  to  him  now,  in  certain  quarters  ;  for  his  brother- 
in-law  was  one  of  his  chief  creditors. 

Damn  it,  what  did  Guy  mean  by  saying  that  his 
wife  was  ill  ?  When  he  left  home,  she  had  been  well 
enough  to  be  infernally  disagreeable.  The  thought 
recurred  again — could  she  have  written  to  Guy  ? 
She  had  acted  like  a  fool  when  he  came  abroad  ;  and 
perhaps,  woman-like,  she  was  just  fool  enough  to  do 
this.  And  Phil,  who  perhaps  cared  little  enough  for 
his  wife  himself,  suddenly  felt  a  rage  of  jealousy 
against  poor  Guy. 

Phil  thought  he  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning  ;  he  did  not  know  much  about  business. 
Certain  it  is,,  that  when  they  had  to  suspend,  he 
was  as  much  horrified  as  any  one.  He  had  always 
been  used  to  the  indulgence  of  his  friends ;  he 
had  supposed  most  of  them  to  be  good  fellows  ;  and 
when  they  came  swarming  down  upon  him  for  their 
money,  just  at  the  most  inconvenient  moment,  like  a 
pack  of  tradesmen,  it  seemed  to  poor  Phil  as  if  the 
world  were  all  changed,  and  he  stood  aghast.  His 
partner  was  much  less  surprised  ;  he  was  busy  about 


GUERNDALE.  425 

town  that  day,  and  left  Phil  in  the  office  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  it  alone. 

Then,  he  remembered,  there  was  some  infernal 
nasty  talk  about  false  pretences  ;  and,  Lord  knew,  he 
was  guiltless  of  that.  He  had,  of  course,  had  some 
of  his  wife's  money  in  the  business,  just  as  his  partner 
had  had  a  hundred  thousand  of  his  father's  ;  but  as  for 
talk  about  ostensible  capital,  or  guaranty,  that  was  all 
nonsense.  Waterstock  had  taken  out  the  money  and 
paid  it  back  some  weeks  before  ;  and,  of  course,  he 
had  done  the  same  with  his  wife's,  that  is,  he  had  not 
formally  given  it  back  to  her,  because  she  could  not 
understand  about  business.  In  fact,  he  complained 
very  bitterly  of  Waterstock's  conduct.  He  did  not 
understand  it  ;  if  there  had  been  anything  shady  it 
was  in  Waterstock's  part  of  the  business  ;  Water- 
stock  had  all  the  experience  ;  he  did  not  believe 
Waterstock  had  lost  a  cent  by  their  failure.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  it,  Jim  had  treated  him  very  shab 
bily.  He,  Phil,  had  had  nothing  left  of  his  own 
money  ;  only  a  beggarly  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
and  that  belonged  to  his  wife.  The  creditors,  many 
of  whom  pretended  to  be  his  personal  friends,  had 
behaved  like  a  parcel  of  vultures,  prowling  round 
and  grabbing  anything  they  could  get.  They  had 
even  got  scent  of  the  twenty  thousand  of  his  wife's  ; 
which,  however,  he  did  manage  to  keep,  and  went 
to  Europe  with  it,  for  it  was  fairly  hers,  to  see 
the  English  bondholders  of  a  railway  that  he  and 
Waterstock  had  controlled.  And  even  there  his  ene 
mies  had  followed  him,  and  made  Such  an  infernal 
stink  that  all  his  own  offers  were  refused,  and  that 


426  GUERNDALE. 

chance  was  lost.  When  the  election  took  place,  half 
the  English  proxies  were  sent  against  him.  God 
knew,  he  had  done  all  he  could  ;  the  fact  is,  the 
world  treated  him  unkindly  ;  and  so  Phil  concluded 
his  bitter  reflections  with  the  usual  comment  that  it 
was  hard  luck,  damned  hard  luck,  particularly  for 
a  fellow  like  himself. 

Then  there  was  Annie,  too.  By  God,  she  had 
treated  him  like  a  pick-pocket.  She  had  made  a  reg 
ular  scene  when  he  left  home,  opposing  his  coming 
abroad,  throwing  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  last 
chance  he  had  to  restore  their  fortunes.  As  if  he  was 
not  doing  it  all  for  her  sake  !  The  Lord  deliver  him 
from  a  woman,  when  she  mixed  herself  up  in  business. 
However,  reflected  Phil,  the  real  reason  probably  was 
that  she  was  angry  about  his  mistress.  It  was  nat 
ural  enough,  he  supposed  ;  and  it  inas  unfortunate 
the  woman  made  such  a  row,  and  at  just  the  worst 
time,  too  ;  his  usual  luck. 

And  here  Philip  mentally  paid  his  wife  the  com 
pliment  of  supposing  that  she  had  grudged  him  the 
twenty  thousand  dollars  of  her  money  that  he 
brought  with  him.  Perhaps  in  this  inference  our 
old  friend  was  a  little  hasty.  It  was  excusable,  no 
doubt ;  Phil  was  in  an  unusually  bad  temper  that 
night,  and  he  certainly  had  been  very  unfortunate. 
Besides,  the  true  reason  never  occurred  to  him  ; 
which  I  fancy  the  reader  will  have  little  difficulty 
iu  divining — namely,  that  Annie  had  read  what  the 
papers  said  about  her  husband's  failure,  and  was 
only  too  willing  to  spend  the  last  of  her  own  money 
in  getting  a  little  kinder  judgment  for  the  man  she 


GUERNDALE.  427 

had  loved.  Even  if  their  right  was  doubtful,  she 
preferred  the  creditors  should  have  it  ;  Annie  was 
so  old-fashioned  as  to  be  proud  in  such  matters. 
Phil  did  not  have  such  weak  sensibilities,  and  would 
not  hear  of  it. 

All  Phil's  thinking  did  not  seem  to  lead  to  much 
good.  His  cud  of  fancy  was  bitter,  rather  than 
sweet,  that  evening.  After  a  time  he  grew  tired  of 
it,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  dancing ;  but  the 
sight  rather  bored  him  than  otherwise.  He  had  had 
still  worse  luck  since  he  left  London  ;  most  of  the 
twenty  thousand  had  been  left  at  Monaco.  Phil 
was  not  the  metal  for  a  desperate  gambler  ;  when 
he  saw  only  three  or  four  thousand  remaining,  he 
grew  frightened.  He  had  never  known  what  it  was 
to  be  absolutely  without  money,  and  he  trembled  at 
the  prospect.  Then,  one  night,  an  acquaintance  of 
his  was  found  with  a  bullet  in  his  head,  and  Philip 
had  no  mind  to  follow  his  example.  Three  or  four 
thousand  were  not  much  ;  but  they  were  enough  to 
finish  his  European  trip,  and  take  him  home  ;  and, 
once  there,  his  creditors  would  begin  to  show  some 
decency  ;  or,  hang  it  all,  his  mother  would  do  some 
thing  for  him,  even  if  she  did  have  a  beggarly  brood 
of  children.  So  thinking,  Philip  had  come  to  Vienna 
before  all  his  money  was  quite  gone  at  Monaco. 
However,  certain  other  expenses  had  intervened ; 
and  not  many  thousand  francs  were  left  by  the  time 
he  got  to  Pesth.  The  one  definite  result  of  his  re 
flections,  that  evening,  was  a  determination  to  see 
Guy  again  in  the  morning,  and  Randolph,  too,  if 
possible.  Meantime,  his  troubles  were  too  great  to 


428  GUERNDALE. 

bear  sober  ;  Phil  was  utterly  unused  to  anything  like 
serious  care,  and  he  could  not  stand  it.  He  was  a 
sociable  fellow,  moreover,  and  could  not  bear  to 
drink  alone  ;  so,  for  want  of  a  better  man  (and 
Phil  never  had  any  false  pride  or  snobbishness 
about  him),  he  invited  the  commissionaire  to  a 
bottle  of  wine  ;  and  the  two  made  a  night  of  it 
together.  It  happened  that  this  night  prolonged 
itself  into  two  nights  and  a  day  ;  the  acquaint 
ance  in  Pesth  possessed  by  Phil's  new  compan 
ion  was  extensive  and  curious,  though  unhappily 
rather  expensive  to  his  friends  ;  and  it  was  late  in 
the  morning  of  the  third  day  when  Phil  returned  to 
his  hotel.  If  his  francs  were  counted  in  thousands 
before,  hundreds  could  manage  it  now  ;  and  Phil 
swore,  as  he  stumped  wearily  up  the  grand  staircase, 
that  he  would  see  Guy  as  soon  as  possible  in  the 
afternoon,  have  it  over,  and  get  away  from  the  in 
fernal  hole  by  night. 

Guy  had  had  a  serious  relapse  on  the  even 
ing  of  Philip's  visit ;  so  much  so,  that  Bixby  was 
frightened,  and  telegraphed  at  once  for  Randolph. 
All  that  night  the  fever  never  left  him  ;  and  the 
next  day  he  seemed  to  be  worse.  His  delirium  wras 
a  bad  symptom  ;  he  talked  rapidly  ;  most  of  the 
time  he  fancied  himself  back  in  the  war ;  now  he 
was  riding  in  the  cavalry  attack  ;  now  he  was  lying 
wounded,  and  the  murderers  were  coming  ;  then  he 
would  cry  that  it  was  Norton,  and  thank  God  for  it. 
Then  he  thought  himself  back  in  Arizona,  and  was 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  making  a  long 
journey,  and  must  travel  very  rapidly,  that  there  was 


GUERNDALE.  429 

some  one  in  Boston  whom  he  wished  to  see  ;  he  fre 
quently  tried  to  get  out  of  bed,  crying  that  he  could 
not  wait  for  the  next  train  ;  and  it  required  all  Bixby's 
force  to  hold  him  down.  In  the  afternoon  he  grew 
a  little  quieter,  and  Randolph  got  back.  He  heard 
from  Bixby  of  Philip  Symonds'  visit ;  and  as  Guy 
was  now  better,  he  persuaded  Billy  to  go  to  Vienna, 
as  he  had  intended,  now  that  he  was  there  to  take 
his  place. 

For  several  hours,  Randolph  sat  there,  with  the 
nurse  ;  the  woman  touched  Guy  as  tenderly  as  if  he 
had  been  her  son  ;  and  as  Randolph  watched  her 
careful  movements,  he  thanked  her  with  a  look, 
silently.  Through  all  his  delirium,  Guy  kept  his 
secret ;  he  had  never  once  spoken  of  Annie,  but 
mentioned  Philip's  name  repeatedly.  Norton  asked 
the  nurse  if  he  ever  spoke  of  any  one  else  ;  but  she 
said  not,  except  that  the  day  before  his  mind  had 
run  much  upon  woods  and  brooks  and  walks  in  the 
country  with  children.  Randolph  showed  some  sur 
prise  that  she  understood  so  much  English,  so  the 
nurse  told  him,  still  speaking  in  French,  that  she 
knew  that  language  ;  then  it  occurred  to  Norton  that 
her  French  had  an  English  accent,  but  he  forebore 
to  question  her  further. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Guy  was  silent  for  some 
hours  ;  then  he  turned,  and,  opening  his  eyes,  mut 
tered  something  in  a  low  tone,  not  like  the  tone  of 
one  who  is  delirious.  It  seemed  to  be  some  sentence 
which  he  repeated  again  and  again.  The  nurse  bent 
down  and  listened. 

"What  does  he  say ?"  whispered  Randolph;  and 


430  GUERNDALE. 

bending  forward  himself,  he  took  Guy's  wrist  in  his 
hand.  As  he  did  so,  he  looked  up,  and  noticed  the 
nurse's  eyes,  which  were  very  soft  and  deep. 

"  Seule  I 'amour  pent  nous  vainer  el  "  said  she. 

Remembering  that  it  was  probably  Guy's  old  fam 
ily  motto,  he  corrected  her  : 

"  Seule  la  mort  feut  nous  vainer  e." 

"  Cest  la  meme  chose,"  she  answered,  abstractedly. 
Randolph,  at  any  other  time,  would  have  felt  an  in 
clination  to  smile,  the  speech  sounded  so  incongru 
ous  from  the  lips  of  a  nun.  But  he  kept  silence, 
and,  listening  himself,  heard  Guy  once  or  twice  re 
peat  the  phrase.  Then  he  sighed,  and  fell  into  a 
natural  sleep.  Randolph  dropped  his  pulse.  The 
access  of  the  fever  was  past. 

"Thank  heaven,"  said  Randolph,  "he's  all  right 
again."  And  he  got  up  with  a  long  breath  of  relief, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  The  nurse  had 
resumed  her  knitting,  and  sat  demurely  in  the  cor 
ner. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

"  Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed 
A  red-cheeked  lass,  who  long  was  dead  ; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said, 

To  quite  forget  her." — AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

NOW  that  I  am  so  near  the  end,  I  wish  to  say 
why  I,  John  Strang,  of  Dale,  write  this  book. 
It  is  because  I  loved  Guy. 

For  I  knew  Guy  very  well,  much  better  than  he 
ever  supposed.  I  knew  him  as  a  boy  in  Dale,  at 
school,  at  college,  and  for  two  years  we  lived  to 
gether.  Many  of  these  things  I  learned  from  Nor 
ton  Randolph,  long  afterward,  and  from  others ; 
and  some  things,  which  I  could  not  know,  I  have 
put  in  out  of  my  own  head,  using  a  biographer's 
privilege.  And  even  besides  the  facts  and  inci 
dents,  there  are  many  places  where  Norton's  hints 
have  helped  me  ;  but  still,  so  far  as  I  could,  I  have 
written  this  from  what  I  know  ;  and  put  down  Guy's 
own  thoughts  as  I  knew  them  to  be,  not  my  own. 
For,  as  I  said  before,  I  knew  Guy  much  better  than 
he  thought ;  and,  though  I  fear  he  did  not  know  it, 
I  loved  him.  He  is  the  only  man  I  have  ever  met 
to  whom  I  should  think  of  applying  this  word.  And 
so  I  have  tried  to  write  the  history  of  his  life.  It 
was  a  strange  life  ;  and  it  was  a  strange  story — that 


432  GUERNDALE. 

of  the  old  diamond,  which  Guy's  ancestor  found, 
and  Phil's  ancestor  quarrelled  with  him  for.  Strange 
things  happen  occasionally,  even  now.  It  was  only 
a  coincidence,  of  course  ;  at  all  events,  it  is  now  off 
my  mind,  and  I  leave  it  with  the  reader. 

I  sometimes  feel  that  I  should  like  to  have  my  old 
friend  know  of  this  ;  and  that  I,  at  least,  did  not 
misunderstand  him.  And  yet  it  was  so  difficult  to 
understand  him,  that  I  fear  I  have  failed  to  bring 
him  out  before  the  reader  as  he  stands  in  my  mem 
ory.  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  very  well  that  his  life  was 
morbid — wasted,  if  you  like  ;  very  likely,  he  acted 
foolishly ;  perhaps  even  his  character  was  weak  ; 
you  and  I  would  not  have  done  so,  I  know.  I  doubt 
not,  Guy  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  ac 
knowledge  this  ;  for  he  had  a  poorer  opinion  of  him 
self  than  any  one  else  could  possibly  have.  All  the 
same,  I  loved  him. 

Yes,  Guy  was  a  curious  fellow ;  and  we  all  know 
what  that  phrase  means  when  applied  to  a  man  by 
his  acquaintances  in  a  club-room.  Both  his  distrust 
of  himself  and  his  admiration  for  his  friends  put  him 
at  a  disadvantage.  I  doubt  if  they  always  gave  him 
credit  for  either;  just  as  I  think  that  Don  Quixote 
must,  in  his  day,  have  been  thought  rather  arrogant 
and  egotistical  by  the  good  people  about  him  ;  yet 
heaven  knows  there  was  never  a  more  unselfish 
creature  than  the  dear  old  Don.  And,  as  Norton 
says,  Guy  was  a  little  like  him.  He  was  forever 
looking  for  this  year's  birds  in  the  nests  of  the  last. 
And  it  was  the  very  old-time  simplicity  of  his  cha 
racter  that  made  it  hard  to  understand.  He  took 


GUERNDALE.  433 

life  too  seriously  ;  and  never  could  accept  a  com 
promise.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  that  most  merry, 
most  sad  conceit  of  Cervantes,  Norton  Randolph 
called  my  attention  once  to  a  point  in  the  book 
which  I  had  never  noticed— that  among  all  the  Don's 
adventures,  the  only  one  where  he  succeeded,  where 
his  knight-errantry  was  of  use,  where  he  did  not 
make  a  fool  of  himself,  was  when  he  dissuaded  Mar- 
cella's  followers  from  the  extravagances  of  love. 
Even  in  Don  Quixote's  day,  says  Norton,  that  was 
the  only  one  of  the  real  old  follies  left — and  that  was 
why  he  succeeded.  Pity  the  Don  had  not  met  Guy. 
And  even  of  Norton  himself,  I  sometimes  shrewdly 
suspect — however,  so,  no  doubt,  does  the  reader. 

To  return  to  Guy.  He  was  a  dreamer,  of  course  ; 
the  world  he  had  in  his  mind  was  not  this  second 
planet  from  the  sun  ;  the  men  he  had  in  his  mind 
were  not  those  we  see  about  us  ;  and  yet  something 
made  him  always  act  as  if  they  were  ;  and  I  feel  con 
vinced  he  always  would  have  acted  so.  Guy  was  no 
fool ;  he  could  easily  have  seen  human  weaknesses, 
meanness,  evil  motives  ;  but  he  would  not  stoop  to 
recognize  them.  He  was  an  impracticable  fellow. 
Even  if  he  found  his  ideal  false,  he  preferred  to  act 
as  if  it  were  true.  When  his  friends  changed,  he  re 
fused  to  let  himself  be  altered.  He  would  rather  be 
deceived  than  mistrust.  He  never  would  have  got 
on  in  the  Avorld.  Perhaps  he  is  well  out  of  it.  I  do 
not  know  that  he  ever  believed  very  much ;  but  he 
started  by  believing  in  three  things — truth,  love,  and 
friendship — and,  to  my  knowledge,  he  never  recant 
ed.  I  do  not  believe  he  was  wrong  ;  but,  even  if  he 
19 


434  GUERNDALE. 

was  mistaken,  I  know  that  he  would  have  preferred 
to  have  been  so.  And  he  never  would  have  ac 
knowledged  the  mistake  ;  he  was  too  proud. 

Somehow  or  other,  despite  his  being  a  curious  fel 
low,  it  is  astonishing  how  many  men  remember  to 
speak  kindly  of  him  now.  Take  Bixby,  for  instance 
— never  were  two  men  more  different — and  yet  when 
he  told  me  what  he  knew  about  that  unfortunate 
summer  of  Guy's  on  the  Danube,  the  whiskey  and 
water  was  not  strong  enough  by  half  to  account  for 
the  moisture  in  the  eyes  of  so-  old  a  toper,  even 
though  he  has  reformed.  Well,  well !  Let  me  say 
what  I  know  about  the  other  men,  before  I  tell  how 
Guy  and  Annie  were  made  happy. 

William  Bixby,  as  the  reader  knows,  is  married, 
and  now  the  father  of  several  children,  and  has  al 
ready  shown  signs  of  becoming  a  very  strict  parent, 
who  will  look  carefully  behind  the  items  "books" 
and  "charity,"  in  his  sons'  college  accounts.  Billy 
lives  in  New  York,  has  his  favorite  seat  in  the  Union 
Club,  in  one  of  the  windows  on  Fifth  Avenue,  plays 
more  whist  than  poker,  rarely  drinks  before  dinner, 
and  never  goes  to  Paris  without  his  wife.  He  must 
have  inherited  a  good  half  million  from  his  father  ; 
and  although  the  old  man  was  the  first  possessor  of 
this  fortune,  the  descent  cast  has  tolled  the  entry,  as 
a  lawyer  would  say,  and  Billy's  social  position  is  now 
safe  beyond  attack.  Bixby  has  begun  to  dabble  a 
little  in  politics,  and  he  was  a  delegate  to  the  Demo 
cratic  National  Convention  which  nominated  Han 
cock. 

Seth    Hackett,   on  the  other  hand,   is  an  ardent 


GUERNDALE.  435 

Republican,  and  a  prominent  member  of  the  party 
"machine"  in  Pennsylvania.  He  is  adroit  in  man 
agement  and  very  popular  with  the  masses  ;  and,  if 
he  does  not  go  too  far,  will  go  very  far  indeed. 

Vansittart,  I  believe,  has  gone  to  the  dogs  ;  and  I 
am  very  sorry  for  them. 

Tom  Brattle  is  quite  rich,  and  is  coming  out  as  a 
prominent  man  in  society.  Although  four  or  five 
and  thirty,  he  is  a  great  amateur  of  girls  ;  he  has  his 
happy  hunting  grounds  at  Mount  Desert  and  New 
port,  and  is  doubtless  a  brave  who  deserves  the  fair, 
though  hitherto  he  has  led  no  one  to  his  wigwam. 
His  heart  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a  tennis- 
ball,  flying  from  one  racket  to  the  other ;  but  thus 
far  he  has  kept  it  safely  over  the  net. 

Lane  is  cutting  his  waistcoats  to  become  one  of 
the  solid  men  of  Boston,  and  will  very  likely  die  a 
member  of  the  corporation  of  Harvard  College;  he 
chose  one  of  his  cousins  to  become  his  wife,  and  is 
fond  of  entertaining  titled  Englishmen.  He  must  be 
worth  considerably  over  a  million  ;  but  he  rarely 
leaves  Boston  now,  as  it  is  so  difficult  to  get  to  Lon 
don  without  passing  through  New  York.  Although 
he  does  not  wholly  approve  of  me,  he  treats  me  with 
much  consideration  when  we  meet,  and  we  talk  about 
Guy. 

Where  Philip  Symonds  is,  I  do  not  know  ;  all  I 
can  say  is,  that  he  has  not  been  seen  in  America,  by 
his  creditors,  at  least.  He  had  some  dispute  with 
his  mother,  a'nd  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  ; 
and,  of  course,  his  half-brothers  and  sisters  rarely 
speak  of  him.  I  know  that  he  stayed  some  time 


436.  GUERNDALE. 

with  Lord  John  Canaster,  in  England  ;  and  then  he 
left  there,  with  some  awkward  debts,  as  I  have  heard, 
at  a  club  where  his  host  had  introduced  him.  I  be 
lieve  that  Canaster  paid  the  debts,  and  since  then 
there  has  been  a  breach  between  him  and  Symonds. 
Since  his  failure,  Phil  has  never  been  engaged  in 
any  steady  business  ;  they  say  that  he  complains  bit 
terly  of  the  enmity  of  his  creditors.  He  is  continu 
ally  making  new  friends,  and  as  frequently  discard 
ing  them.  There  were  rumors  that  he  won  largely 
on  Foxhall's  victory  at  the  Grand  Prix,  and  after 
ward  that  he  was  ill  of  the  delirium  tremens  at  Paris. 
That  is  the  last  I  have  heard  of  him  ;  but  I  suppose 
he  will  come  in  for  something  when  his  mother  dies, 
and  is  lying  low  until  that  event  shall  occur. 

As  for  me,  I  suppose  the  reader  guessed  who  I 
was,  long  before  he  came  to  this  chapter.  I  have 
done  very  well  in  business,  and  am  now  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  Denver,  where  I  have  been  settled  for 
a  couple  of  years  with  my  \vife  and  family,  on  ac 
count  of  some  large  engineering  interests  in  Lead- 
ville.  But  Mrs.  Strang  wishes  to  return  to  Boston, 
so  I  am  trying  to  arrange  matters  to  live  in  the  East. 
The  people  were  so  kind  as  to  elect  me  member  of 
Congress  from  Colorado  ;  and  this  will  enable  us  to 
live  in  Washington. 

I  have  not  been  in  Dale  these  five  years.  I  be 
lieve  the  place  is  much  changed  ;  but  the  old  brown 
house  still  stands.  There  bids  fair  to  be  an  interest 
ing  lawsuit  about  it.  It  was  left,  with  all  Guy's  prop 
erty,  to  Mrs.  Symonds,  in  a  will  made  shortly  after 
Phil's  failure  ;  and  now,  as  Guy  left  no  heirs,  near  or 


GUERNDALE.  437 

remote,  he  being  the  last  of  his  family,  there  is  a 
question  whether  the  property  escheats  to  the  na 
tional  Government  or  whether  the  State  can  claim  it 
by  right  of  sovereignty.  There  never  has  been  a  deed 
of  the  property  since  the  original  grant  of  the  Crown 
"to  be  held  as  of  the  manor  of  East  Greenwich  in 
Kent." 

Ned  Dench  never  married  MandyShed  ;  she  became 
a  hospital  nurse  and  did  very  good  work  in  the  East  ; 
finally,  embracing  the  Romish  faith,  she  joined  some 
foreign  sisterhood.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  ;  for  Dench 
himself  pledged  some  of  his  employer's  funds  to  pro 
cure  money  with  which  to  invest  in  copper  stocks. 
Although  his  books  were  ingeniously  kept,  a  certain 
fondness  for  fast  horses  and  "style"  made  his  em 
ployers  suspicious  ;  the  panic  of  1873  made  it  im 
possible  for  him  to  square  his  accounts,  and  the  dis 
crepancy  was  discovered.  Dench  was  terribly  fright 
ened  and  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  at  the  same  time 
restoring  what  he  could  of  the  money.  Even  then,  I 
think  Miss  Shed  would  have  married  him,  had  he 
been  true  to  her  ;  but  in  the  high  tide  of  his  pros 
perity  he  had  formally  broken  the  engagement,  and 
she  had  gone  to  Europe  the  summer  before — the 
same  year  in  which  Guy  went  abroad — meaning  to 
study  her  profession  of  nurse  in  foreign  hospitals. 
Dench  himself  got  off  writh  five  years  in  the  State 
prison. 

As  for  old  Sol  Bung,  he  grew  very  blue  one 
autumn,  being  kept  indoors  by  the  rheumatism.  He 
used  to  sit  and  sun  himself  in  the  garden  ;  but 
steadily  refused  to  be  visited  by  the  Rev.  Hanna, 


438  GUERNDALE. 

professing  little  anxiety  about  his  soul.  "  He  never 
believed  in  no  devil,  anyhow,"  he  said,  one  after 
noon,  "and  as  for  his  eternal  welfare,  he  guessed 
he'd  chance  it  on  the  Lord  ;  "  and  the  next  day  he 
was  found  dead,  with  his  chair  still  tilted  back 
against  the  sunny  wall,  and  his  pipe  broken  in  his 
lap.  He  was  a  kind  old  fellow,  and  a  philosopher  ; 
and  Guy  always  liked  him. 

Norton  Randolph  comes  to  see  me,  now  and  then. 
He  is  travelling  about  the  world,  much  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  L. 

RUCKKEHR  AUF  DEN  GRUNDTON. 

"  In  la  sua  voluntade  e  nostra  pace." — DANTE. 

GUY  woke  up  the  next  morning  with  the  words 
of  the  old  motto  still  in  his  mind,  as  they  had 
been  there  when  the  fever  left  him.  He  had  come  to 
himself  again  ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  remembered 
all  that  he  had  so  far  done  in  his  life  ;  yet  his  head 
was  clear,  and  in  his  thinking  was  a  grateful  sense 
of  calm.  Only  the  days  of  fever  were  lost  ;  he  took 
up  the  thread  of  his  life  where  it  had  broken,  that 
day  of  the  charge  and  his  wound.  His  first  thought 
was  of  Philip's  visit,  and  of  Annie's  letter,  which  he 
had  read  again,  as  he  fancied,  the  day  before.  Seule 
la  mart  nous  vaincquera,  he  was  saying  to  himself  ; 
then  he  turned  and  asked  the  nurse  if  any  letters  had 
come  for  him.  It  happened  that  a  mail  had  arrived 
the  day  before  ;  and  as  he  was  now  safe  from  further 
fever,  she  gave  him  the  packet.  Something  made 
him  wish  to  read  his  letters  alone  ;  so,  after  smooth 
ing  his  pillow  and  propping  him  up  in  the  bed,  she 
left  him  to  himself  and  went  about  some  out-door 
errands  of  her  own. 

It  was  now  high  noon  ;  the  room  was  darkened, 
but  through  the  window  Guy  could  see  the  blinding 


44O  GUEKNDALE. 

whiteness  of  the  walls,  the  ripening  vineyards,  and, 
in  the  air,  the  trembling  waves  of  heat.  His  face 
looked  wasted  and  pale  in  the  strong  light.  On  the 
coverlet  lay  two  or  three  letters,  only  one  of  which 
was  opened  ;  that  was  from  Lane,  and  told  him  of 
Annie's  death. 

Guy  sat,  propped  up  among  the  pillows,  as  the 
nurse  had  left  him.  Randolph  .  had  not  yet  been 
there  that  day  ;  and  the  nurse  had  not  come  back, 
though  she  had  now  been  gone  an  hour  or  more. 
But  Guy  was  out  of  danger  ;  and  both  were  tired 
with  two  nights'  watching. 

As  Guy  thought  to  himself,  it  was  fortunate  that 
he  was  alone.  And  yet  he  was  strangely  calm.  No 
need  now  to  trouble  with  his  speech  to  Philip,  when 
he  came  that  day.  Nothing  further  lay  between 
them  ;  it  wras  all  over  between  him  and  Philip  and 
Annie,  at  last.  As  he  had  said,  years  ago,  in  another 
way,  at  last  ;  at  last,  forever. 

So  Annie  was  dead.  It  was  kind  of  Norton  not  to 
come  back.  He  could  not  talk  with  him  now.  To 
morrow  he  would  ;  yes,  to-morrow.  But  to-day  he 
must  be  all  alone  with  himself.  He  hoped  Philip 
had  not  heard  of  it.  Could  he  have  heard  of  it  the 
day  before  ?  Ah  well  ;  it  did  not  matter ;  nothing 
mattered  now. 

He  had  loved  Annie — he  had  loved  Annie  even 
yesterday — but  now  it  was  all  lost.  He  had  loved 
Annie  ;  and  she  was  dead.  That  was  all  he  could 
think  of  now.  And  yet,  he  could  bear  it  so  calmly  ! 
So  calmly  now  ;  it  was  all  so  simple  and  clear  ;  no 
more  confusion  or  doubt.  And  she  had  written  to 


GUERNDALE.  441 

him  ;  it  was  only  the  month  before  that  she  had 
written  to  him.  Yes,  he  would  see  Norton  to-mor 
row,  and  they  would  make  arrangements  for  the  fu 
ture  then  ;  to-day  it  did  not  seem  as  if  there  was  to 
be  any  future.  Life  seemed  so  old  a  story,  and  so 
long,  so  very  long,  ago. 

Scale  la  mart—had  he  not  tried  ?  There  had  been 
those  five  years,  and  then — and  then  this  letter.  He 
had  loved  Annie,  and  she  had  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

Perhaps  the  old  story  was  right,  about  the  locket. 
He  had  meant  to  give  it  to  Annie,  but  he  had  not 
done  so.  And  now  she  was  dead  and  he  kept  it 
still.  There  it  was  on  the  table,  and  the  diamond 
still  inside  it. 

Curious,  he  found  himself  almost  believing  in  the 
foolish  old  tale.  It  seemed  like  yesterday,  that  boy 
ish  trouble,  that  evening  in  the  marsh,  when  Sol  sat 
fishing,  and  told  him  the  old  story  in  the  twilight. 
Poor  little  Guy  !  how  he  had  cried.  It  did  not  seem 
so  hard  to  bear  now.  And  then  he  had  gone  home 
in  despair,  and  told  it  all  to  Annie  ;  and  she  had 
cried  for  sympathy,  and  he  remembered  her  soft 
hands  upon  his  face. 

His  eyes  were  dry,  but  there  began  to  be  a  faint 
flush  upon  his  cheeks,  and  his  forehead  burned.  Ah. 
there  were  many  strange  things  in  this  world,  after 
all ;  perhaps  it  was  well  not  to  laugh  too  much  at 
old  superstitions,  at  old  crimes  that  left  a  stain 
behind  them.  He  remembered  his  old  boast  of  boy 
ish  pride,  his  resolve  to  keep  the  stone  and  regain 
all  that  they  had  lost  ;  after  all,  had  he  done  better 
than  his  father  ?  It  is  easy  to  laugh  in  the  daylight. 
19* 


442  GUERNDALE. 

He  thought  of  his  old  dreams,  dreams  of  youth- 
were  they  realized  now  in  riper  age  ?  What  had  he 
done  with  his  life  ?  He  had  loved  Annie  and  she 
was  dead. 

Yes,  he  might  still  go  on.  So  he  would  try  ;  but 
first  fling  the  cursed  stone  away.  Even  if  he  did  not 
care  so  much  now.  Where  was  it  ? 

His  thoughts  began  to  wander  again.  The  fever 
had  come  back  ;  but  he  did  not  know  it,  and  to  his 
sick  imagination  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  evil  came 
from  the  stone.  The  old  story  was  the  one  idea  in 
his  mind.  Anything  to  hurl  the  diamond  from  him. 
There  it  was,  still  near  him,  in  the  locket.  Well  ! 
he  would  try  the  fates.  So  they  never  should  be 
happy  while  they  kept  it.  He  would  hurl  it  away, 
anywhere,  so  that  it  were  lost  to  him.  Annie  ! 

Guy  lifted  himself  upon  one  elbow,  and  looked 
about  the  room.  He  was  very  weak  !  truly,  he  had 
not  known  that  he  was  so  weak.  There  were  strange 
blazing  lights  upon  the  wall.  The  bandages  trou 
bled  him  ;  he  could  only  move  one  arm,  and  the 
nurse  was  not  there.  Perhaps  she  was  in  the  next 
room  ?  No  matter  ;  he  would  get  it  himself  ;  he 
alone  must  throw  it  away. 

With  difficulty  he  got  upon  his  feet ;  then  his  head 
throbbed  terribly,  and  in  a  moment  of  weakness  he 
sank  back.  Courage  !  It  was  only  a  few  steps. 
His  thoughts  were  all  confused  now.  Annie  stood 
before  him  beckoning  ;  the  floor  seemed  to  shake 
and  quiver  before  his  eyes  ;  but  there  was  the  table, 
and  upon  it  the  fatal  locket.  In  three  steps  he 
reached  it  ;  grasping  the  locket,  he  wrenched  it 


GUERNDALE.  443 

open,  using  both  hands,  and  took  out  the  stone  ; 
then  his  strength  gave  way,  and  reeling  back,  he  fell 
heavily  upon  the  bed.  The  effort  loosened  his  ban 
dages,  and  probably  opened  the  wound,  for  the  blood 
came  through,  staining  the  sheets  ;  but  in  his  deliri 
um  Guy  saw  nothing.  Soon  the  loss  of  blood  re 
lieved  the  fever,  and  his  consciousness  revived  ;  but 
he  lay  looking  at  the  stone.  Should  he  then  aban 
don  it  all  ?  Should  he  lose  it  forever  ?  For  a  long 
time  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it ;  then  he  looked 
down  and  saw  that  he  was  bleeding.  He  looked  at 
the  blood  indifferently,  upon  the  white  linen,  as  if  it 
belonged  to  another  person.  Perhaps  he  ought  to 
ring.  He  might  bleed  to  death  if  left  alone. 

He  tried  to  think,  but  again  his  thoughts  became 
confused.  How  pale  the  stone  looked  !  Where  was 
the  bell  ? 

Suddenly  his  arm  grew  weak.  His  hand  fell  back 
upon  the  coverlet,  and  the  diamond  rolled  upon  the 
floor,  away  from  him. 

When  Philip  got  back  to  his  room  that  morning, 
he  found  a  telegram.  It  had  been  sent  to  London, 
and  from  there  to  Nice,  and  then  to  Vienna  ;  the 
date  was  nearly  a  month  before.  It  was  a  great 
shock  to  Philip.  He  had  never  fancied  that  his  wife 
was  seriously  ill.  It  was  an  hour  or  more  before  he 
could  collect  his  thoughts.  What  was  he  to  do  ? 
Could  Guy  have  heard  of  it  ? 

After  all,  it  was  more  than  ever  important  for  him 
to  see  Guy.  He  must  get  back  to  America  immedi 
ately.  If  Guy  had  heard  of  it  he  would  not  refuse- 


444  GUERNDALE. 

him  a  loan  under  the  circumstances.  Good  God  ! 
how  suddenly  it  must  have  happened.  And  just  at 
the  worst  time,  too,  when  he  Avas  so  far  away. 

With  a  trembling  hand,  Philip  made  his  toilet. 
His  head  was  not  quite  clear,  and  he  dashed  his  face 
in  a  bowl  of  cold  water.  Early  in  the  afternoon,  he 
was  at  Guy's  door  ;  the  nurse  was  not  in  the  ante 
room,  so  he  went  in  softly.  It  was  best  for  him  to 
see  Guy  alone. 

The  room  was  darkened,  but  he  saw  that  no  one 
was  there.  He  went  up  to  the  bed  to  speak  to  Guy. 
An  open  letter  was  lying  on  the  coverlet,  which  was 
stained  with  blood  ;  and  Guy  was  dead. 

Philip  stood  for  a  moment,  horror-struck  ;  then 
turned  to  give  the  alarm.  As  he  stepped  back,  he 
saw  something  glitter  on  the  floor.  He  suddenly  re 
membered  Guy's  diamond  ;  stooping,  he  picked  it 
up  and  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  then  walked  hurriedly 
out  of  the  room.  When  he  got  into  the  light,  he 
took  it  out  and  examined  it  carefully. 

The  diamond  was  only  a  crystal,  after  all. 


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is  mingled  with  the  romance  of  science  in  perfectly  artistic  propor 
tions.  The  stories  are  really  fascinating." — Cincinnati  Commercial. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  MAGO;  or,  A  Phoe 
nician  Expedition.  B.C.  1000.  By  LEON  CAHUN.  With  73 
illustrations  by  P.  Philippoteaux.  Translated  from  the  French 
by  Ellen  E.  Frewer.  One  vol.,  8vo,  $2.50. 

THEOPHILUS  AND  OTHERS.  By  MARY  MAPES  DODGE.  A 
book  for  older  readers.  One  vol.,  I2ino,  $1.50. 

"The  whole  series  is  very  clever,  and  makes  a  volume  of  most 
amusing  reading." — British.  Quarterly  Review. 

SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES.  Two  Series.  Each  one  vol.,  i2mo, 
$1.50. 

"  Of  these  stories,  we  have  simply  to  say  they  are  charming,  writ 
ten  in  a  most  chaste,  quiet,  and  yet  somehow  intense  style,  and 
thoroughly  beautiful  in  their  spirit  and  their  lessons." — The  Chris 
tian  Register. 

HANDICAPPED.     By  MARION  HARLAND.    One  vol.,  i2mo,  $1.50. 

DR.  JOHNS.  Being  a  Narrative  of  Certain  Events  in  the  Life  of  an 
Orthodox  Minister  in  Connecticut.  By  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 
Two  vols.,  i2mo,  $3.50. 

THE  COSSACKS.  A  Story  of  Russian  Life.  Translated  by  Eugene 
Schuyler,  from  the  Russian  of  Count  Leo  Tolstoy.  One  vol., 

121110,     $1.25. 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  By  FRANK  R  STOCKTON.  A  New  and  En 
larged  Edition.  One  vol.,  i6mo,  paper,  60  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  TRIAL;  or,  Old  School  and  New. 
By  A.  PERRY.  One  vol.,  i2ino,  Second  Edition,  $1.00. 


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CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

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